WORKS  OF  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


"Such  is  the  beauty  of  his  speech,  such  the  majesty  of  his 
ideas,  such  the  power  of  the  moral  sentiment  in  men,  and  such 
the  impression  which  his  whole  character  makes  on  them,  that 
they  lend  him,  everywhere,  their  ears,  and  thousands  bless  his 
manly  thoughts."  —  Massachusetts  Quarterly-Review. 


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PARNASSUS  :  A  volume  of  Choice  Poems,  selected  from 
the  whole  range  of  English  Literature,  edited  by  RALPH 
WALDO  EMERSON.  With  a  Prefatory  Essay.  Crown 
8vo.  Nearly  600  pages.  $4.00. 


JAMES   R.  OSGOOD    &    CO., 


PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON. 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 


Twelve    Chapters. 


BY 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1876. 


COPYRIGHT,  1870. 
BY  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE 7 

CIVILIZATION 19 

ART 35 

ELOQUENCE 53 

DOMESTIC  LIFE 85 

FARMING HI 

WORK  AND  DAYS 127 

BOOKS 151 

CLUBS         . 179 

COURAGE 201 

SUCCESS 225 

OLD  AGE       ....  251 


272520 


SOCIETY   AND    SOLITUDE. 


SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE. 


I  FELL  in  with  a  humorist,  on  my  travels,  who  had  in 
his  chamber  a  cast  of  the  Rondanini  Medusa,  and  who 
assured  me  that  the  name  which  that  fine  work  of  art 
bore  in  the  catalogues  was  a  misnomer,  as  he  was  con 
vinced  lhat  the  sculptor  who  carved  it  intended  it  for 
Memory,  Ihe  mother  of  the  Muses.  In  the  conversation 
that  followed,  my  new  friend  made  some  extraordinary 
confessions.  "Do  you  not  see,"  he  said,  "the  penalty 
of  learning,  and  that  each  of  these  scholars  whom  yon 

have  met  at  S ,  though  he  were  to  be  the  last  man, 

would,  like  the  executioner  in  Hood's  poem,  guillotine 
the  last  but  one  ?  "  He  added  many  lively  remarks,  but 
his  evident  earnestness  engaged  my  attention,  and,  in  the 
weeks  that  followed,  we  became  better  acquainted.  He 
had  good  abilities,  a  genial  temper,  and  no  vices  ;  but  he 
had  one  defect,  —  he  could  not  speak  in  the  tone  of  the 
people.  There  was  some  paralysis  on  his  will,  such  that, 
when  he  met  men  on  common  terms,  he  spoke  weakly, 
and  from  the  point,  like  a  flighty  girl.  His  consciousness 
of  the  fault  made  it  worse.  He  envied  every  drover  and 
lumberman  in  the  tavern  their  manly  speech.  He  coveted 
Mirabeau's  don  terrible  dc  la  familiarite,  believing  that 
he  whose  sympathy  goes  lowest  is  the  man  from  whom 
1* 


SOLITUDE. 

kings  have  the  most  to  fear.  For  himself,  he  declared 
that  he  could  not  get  enough  alone  to  write  a  letter  to  a 
friend.  He  left  the  city;  he  hid  himself  in  pastures. 
The  solitary  river  was  not  solitary  enough  ;  the  sun  and 
moon  put  him  out.  When  he  bought  a  house,  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  plant  trees.  He  could  not  enough 
conceal  himself.  Set  a  hedge  Jiere ;  set  oaks  there,  — 
trees  behind  trees ;  above  all,  set  evergreens,  for  they  will 
keep  a  secret  all  the  year  round.  The  most  agreeable 
compliment  you  could  pay  him  was,  to  imply  that  you 
had  not  observed  him  in  a  house  or  a  street  where  you 
had  met  him.  Whilst  he  suffered  at  being  seen  where 
lie  was,  he  consoled  himself  with  the  delicious  thought 
of  the  inconceivable  number  of  places  where  he  was  not. 
All  he  wished  of  his  tailor  was  to  provide  that  sober  mean 
of  color  and  cut  which  would  never  detain  the  eye  for  a 
moment.  He  went  to  Vienna,  to  Smyrna,  to  London.  In 
all  the  variety  of  costumes,  a  carnival,  a  kaleidoscope  of 
clothes,  to  his  horror  he  could  never  discover  a  man  in  the 
street  who  wore  anything  like  his  own  dress.  He  would 
have  given  his  soul  for  the  ring  of  Gyges.  His  dismay 
at  his  visibility  had  blunted  the  fears  of  mortality.  "  Do 
you  think,"  he  said,  "  I  am  in  such  great  terror  of  being 
shot,  —  I,  who  am  only  waiting  to  shuffle  off  my  corpo 
real  jacket,  to  slip  away  into  the  back  stars,  and  put  diam 
eters  of  the  solar  system  and  sidereal  orbits  between  me 
and  all  souls,  —  there  to  wear  out  ages  in  solitude,  and 
forget  memory  itself,  if  it  be  possible?"  He  had  a  re 
morse  running  to  despair,  of  his  social  gaucheries,  and 
walked  miles  and  miles  to  get  the  Uvitchings  out  of  his 
face,  the  starts  and  shrugs  out  of  his  arms  and  shoulders. 


SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE.  11 

God  may  forgive  sins,  lie  said,  but  awkwardness  has  no 
forgiveness  in  heaven  or  earth.  He  admired  in  Newton, 
not  so  much  his  theory  of  the  moon,  as  his  letter  to  Col 
lins,  in  which  he  forbade  him  to  insert  his  name  with  the 
solution  of  the  problem  in  the  "  Philosophical  Transac 
tions  " :  "  It  would  perhaps  increase  my  acquaintance, 
the  thing  which  I  chiefly  study  to  decline." 

These  conversations  led  me  somewhat  later  to  the 
knowledge  of  similar  cases,  and  to  the  discovery  that  they 
are  not  of  very  infrequent  occurrence.  Few  substances 
are  found  pure  in  nature.  Those  constitutions  which 
can  bear  in  open  day  the  rough  dealing  of  the  world  must 
be  of  that  mean  and  average  structure,  —  such  as  iron 
and  salt,  atmospheric  air,  and  water.  But  there  are  met 
als,  like  potassium  and  sodium,  which,  to  be  kept  pure, 
must  be  kept  under  naphtha.  Such  are  the  talents  de 
termined  on  some  specialty,  which  a  culminating  civiliza 
tion  fosters  in  the  heart  of  great  cities  and  in  royal  cham 
bers.  Nature  protects  her  own  work.  To  the  culture 
of  the  world,  an  Archimedes,  a  Newton,  is  indispensable  ; 
so  she  guards  them  by  a  certain  aridity.  If  these  had 
been  good  fellows,  fond  of  dancing,  port,  and  clubs,  we 
should  have  had  no  "  Theory  of  the  Sphere,"  and  no 
"  Principia."  They  had  that  necessity  of  isolation  which 
genius  feels.  Each  must  stand  on  his  glass  tripod,  if  he 
would  keep  his  electricity.  Even  Swedenborg,  whose 
theory  of  the  universe  is  based  on  affection,  and  who  rep 
robates  to  weariness  the  danger  and  vice  of  pure  intel 
lect,  is  constrained  to  make  an  extraordinary  exception : 
"  There  are  also  angels  who  do  not  live  consociated,  but 
Separate,  house  and  house ;  these  dwell  in  the  midst  of 
heaven,  because  they  are  the  best  of  angels." 


12  SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE. 

We  have  known  many  fine  geniuses  with  that  imper 
fection  that  they  cannot  do  anything  useful,  not  so  much 
as  write  one  clean  sentence.  'T  is  worse,  and  tragic,  that 
no  man  is  fit  for  society  who  has  fine  traits.  At  a  dis 
tance,  he  is  admired  ;  but  bring  him  hand  to  hand,  he  is 
a  cripple.  One  protects  himself  by  solitude,  and  one  by 
courtesy,  and  one  by  an  acid,  worldly  manner,  —  each 
concealing  how  he  can  the  thinness  of  his  skin  and  his 
incapacity  for  strict  association.  But  there  is  no  remedy 
that  can  reach  the  heart  of  the  disease,  but  either  habits 
of  self-reliance  that  should  go  in  practice  to  making  the 
man  independent  of  the  human  race,  or  else  a  religion  of 
love.  Now  he  hardly  seems  entitled  to  marry  ;  for  how 
can  he  protect  a  woman,  who  cannot  protect  himself? 

We  pray  to  be  conventional.  But  the  wary  Heaven 
takes  care  you  shall  not  be,  if  there  is  anything  good  in 
you.  Dante  was  very  bad  company,  and  was  never  in 
vited  to  dinner.  Michel  Angelo  had  a  sad,  sour  time  of 
it.  The  ministers  of  beauty  are  rarely  beautiful  in  coaches 
and  saloons.  Columbus  discovered  no  isle  or  key  so 
lonely  as  himself.  Yet  each  of  these  potentates  saw  well 
the  reason  of  his  exclusion.  Solitary  was  lie?  Why, 
yes ;  but  his  society  was  limited  only  by  the  amount  of 
brain  Nature  appropriated  in  that  age  to  carry  on  the 
government  of  the  world.  "If  I  stay,"  said  Dante, 
when  there  was  question  of  going  to  Home,  "  who  will 
go  ?  and  if  I  go,  who  will  stay  ?  " 

But  the  necessity  of  solitude  is  deeper  than  we  have 
said,  and  is  organic.  I  have  seen  many  a  philosopher 
whose  world  is  large  enough  for  only  one  person.  He 
affects  to  be  a  good  companion  ;  but  we  are  still  surpris- 


SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE.  13 

ing  his  secret,  that  he  means  and  needs  to  impose  his  sys 
tem  on  all  the  rest.  The  determination  of  each  is  from 
all  the  others,  like  that  of  each  tree  up  into  free  space. 
'T  is  no  wonder,  when  each  has  his  whole  head,  our  so 
cieties  should  be  so  small.  Like  President  Tyler,  our 
party  falls  from  us  every  day,  and  we  must  ride  in  a  sulky 
at  last.  Dear  heart !  take  it  sadly  home  to  thee,  —  there 
is  no  co-operation.  We  begin  with  friendships,  and  all 
our  youth  is  a  reconnoitring  and  recruiting  of  the  holy 
fraternity  they  shall  combine  for  the  salvation  of  men. 
But  so  the  remoter  stars  seem  a  nebula  of  united  light ; 
yet  there  is  no  group  which  a  telescope  will  not  resolve, 
and  the  dearest  friends  are  separated  by  impassable  gulfs. 
The  co-operation  is  involuntary,  and  is  put  upon  us  by 
the  Genius  of  Life,  who  reserves  this  as  a  part  of  his  pre 
rogative.  'T  is  fine  for  us  to  talk ;  we  sit  and  muse,  and 
are  serene  and  complete ;  but  the  moment  wre  meet  with 
anybody,  each  becomes  a  fraction. 

Though  the  stuff  of  tragedy  and  of  romances  is  in  a 
moral  union  of  two  superior  persons,  whose  confidence  in 
each  other  for  long  years,  out  of  sight,  and  in  sight,  and 
against  all  appearances,  is  at  last  justified  by  victorious 
proof  of  probity  to  gods  and  men,  causing  joyful  emo 
tions,  tears  and  glory,  —  though  there  be  for  heroes  this 
moral  union,  yet  they,  too,  are  as  far  off  as  ever  from  an 
intellectual  union,  and  the  moral  union  is  for  compara 
tively  low  and  external  purposes,  like  the  co-operation  of 
a  ship's  company  or  of  a  fire-club.  But  how  insular  and 
pathetically  solitary  are  all  the  people  we  know !  Nor 
dare  they  tell  what  they  think  of  each  other,  when  they 
meet  in  the  street.  We  have  a  fine  right,  to  be  sure,  to 


14  SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE. 

taunt  men  of  the  world  with  superficial  and  treacherous 
courtesies ! 

Such  is  the  tragic  necessity  which  strict  science  finds 
underneath  our  domestic  and  neighborly  life,  irresistibly 
driving  each  adult  soul  as  with  whips  into  the  desert,  and 
making  our  warm  covenants  sentimental  and  momentary. 
We  must  infer  that  the  ends  of  thought  were  peremp 
tory,  if  they  were  to  be  secured  at  such  ruinous  cost. 
They  are  deeper  than  can  be  told,  and  belong  to  the  im 
mensities  and  eternities.  They  reach  down  to  that  depth 
where  society  itself  originates  and  disappears,  —  where 
the  question  is,  Which  is  first,  man  or  men  ?  —  where  the 
individual  is  lost  in  his  source. 

But  this  banishment  to  the  rocks  and  echoes  no  meta 
physics  can  make  right  or  tolerable.  This  result  is  so 
against  nature,  such  a  half-view,  that  it  must  be  corrected 
by  a  common  sense  and  experience.  "  A  man  is  born  by 
the  side  of  his  father,  and  there  he  remains."  A  man 
must  be  clothed  with  society,  or  we  shall  feel  a  certain 
bareness  and  poverty,  as  of  a  displaced  and  unfurnished 
member.  He  is  to  be  dressed  in  arts  and  institutions,  as 
well  as  in  body-garments.  Now  and  then  a  man  exquis 
itely  made  can  live  alone,  and  must ;  but  coop  up  most 
men,  and  you  undo  them.  "  The  king  lived  and  ate  in 
his  hall  with  men,  and  understood  men,"  said  Selden. 
When  a  young  barrister  said  to  the  late  Mr.  Mason,  "  I 
keep  my  chamber  to  read  law,"  —  "  Read  law  !  "  replied 
the  veteran,  "  't  is  in  the  court-room  you  must  read  law." 
Nor  is  the  rule  otherwise  for  literature.  If  you  would 
learn  to  write,  't  is  in  the  street  you  must  learn  it.  Both 
for  the  vehicle  and  for  the  aims  of  fine  arts,  you  must 


SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE.  15 

frequent  the  public  square.  The  people,  and  not  the  col 
lege,  is  the  writer's  home.  A  scholar  is  a  candle  which 
the  love  and  desire  of  all  men  will  light.  Never  his 
lands  or  his  rents,  but  the  power  to  charm  the  disguised 
soul  that  sits  veiled  under  this  bearded  and  that  rosy  vis 
age  is  his  rent  and  ration.  His  products  are  as  needful 
as  those  of  the  baker  or  the  weaver.  Society  cannot  do 
without  cultivated  men.  As  soon  as  the  first  wants  are 
satisfied,  the  higher  wants  become  imperative. 

'T  is  hard  to  mesmerize  ourselves,  to  whip  our  own 
top;  but  through  sympathy  we  are  capable  of  energy 
and  endurance.  Concert  fires  people  to  a  certain  fury  of 
performance  they  can  rarely  reach  alone.  Here  is  the 
use  of  society :  it  is  so  easy  with  the  great  to  be  great ; 
so  easy  to  come  up  to  an  existing  standard ;  — as  easy  as 
it  is  to  the  lover  to  swim  to  his  maiden  through  waves 
so  grim  before.  The  benefits  of  affection  are  immense ; 
and  the  one  event  which  never  loses  its  romance,  is  the 
encounter  with  superior  persons  on  terms  allowing  the 
happiest  intercourse. 

It  by  no  means  follows  that  we  are  not  fit  for  society, 
because  soirees  are  tedious,  and  because  the  soiree  finds 
us  tedious.  A  backwoodsman,  who  had  been  sent  to 
the  university,  told  me  that,  when  he  heard  the  best-bred 
young  men  at  the  law  school  talk  together,  he  reckoned 
himself  a  boor ;  but  whenever  he  caught  them  apart,  and 
had  one  to  himself  alone,  then  they  were  the  boors,  and 
he  the  better  man.  And  if  we  recall  the  rare  hours 
when  we  encountered  the  best  persons,  we  then  found 
ourselves,  and  then  first  society  seemed  to  exist.  That 
was  society,  though  in  the  transom  of  a  brig,  or  on  the 
Florida  Keys. 


1C  SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE. 

A  cold,  sluggish  blood  thinks  it  has  not  facts  enough 
to  the  purpose,  and  must  decline  its  turn  in  the  conver 
sation.  But  they  who  speak  have  no  more,  —  have  less. 
'T  is  not  new  facts  that  avail,  but  the  heat  to  dissolve 
everybody's  facts.  Heat  puts  you  in  right  relation  with 
magazines  of  facts.  The  capital  defect  of  cold,  arid  na 
tures  is  the  want  of  animal  spirits.  They  seem  a  power 
incredible,  as  if  God  should  raise  the  dead.  The  recluse 
witnesses  what  others  perform  by  their  aid,  with  a  kind 
of  fear.  It  is  as  much  out  of  his  possibility  as  the  prow 
ess  of  Cceur-de-Lion,  or  an  Irishman's  day's-work  on  the 
railroad.  'T  is  said,  the  present  and  the  future  are  al 
ways  rivals.  Animal  spirits  constitute  the  power  of  the 
present,  and  their  feats  are  like  the  structure  of  a  pyra 
mid.  Their  result  is  a  lord,  a  general,  or  a  boon  com 
panion.  Before  these,  what  a  base  mendicant  is  Memory 
with  his  leathern  badge  !  But  this  genial  heat  is  latent 
in  all  constitutions,  and  is  disengaged  only  by  the  fric 
tion  of  society.  As  Bacon  said  of  manners,  "  To  obtain 
them,  it  only  needs  not  to  despise  them,"  so  we  say  of 
animal  spirits,  that  they  are  the  spontaneous  product  of 
health  and  of  a  social  habit.  "For  behavior,  men  learn 
it,  as  they  take  diseases,  one  of  another." 

But  the  people  are  to  be  taken  in  very  small  doses. 
If  solitude  is  proud,  so  is  society  vulgar.  In  society, 
high  advantages  are  set  down  to  the  individual  as  dis 
qualifications.  We  sink  as  easily  as  we  rise,  through 
sympathy.  So  many  men  whom  I  know  are  degraded 
by  their  sympathies,  their  native  aims  being  high  enough, 
but  their  relation  all  too  tender  to  the  gross  people 
about  them.  Men  cannot  afford  to  live  together  on  their 


SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE.  17 

merits,  and  they  adjust  themselves  by  their  demerits,  — 
by  their  love  of  gossip,  or  by  sheer  tolerance  and  animal 
good-nature.  They  untune  and  dissipate  the  brave  as 
pirant. 

The  remedy  is,  to  reinforce  each  of  these  moods  from 
the  other.  Conversation  will  not  corrupt  us,  if  we  come 
to  the  assembly  in  our  own  garb  and  speech,  and  with 
the  energy  of  health  to  select  what  is  ours  and  reject 
what  is  not.  Society  we  must  have ;  but  let  it  be  so 
ciety,  and  not  exchanging  news,  or  eating  from  the  same 
dish.  Is  it  society  to  sit  in  one  of  your  chairs?  I  can 
not  go  to  the  houses  of  my  nearest  relatives,  because  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  alone.  Society  exists  by  chemical  af 
finity,  and  not  otherwise. 

Put  any  company  of  people  together  with  freedom  for 
conversation,  and  a  rapid  self-distribution  takes  place, 
into  sets  and  pairs.  The  best  are  accused  of  exclusive- 
ness.  It  would  be  more  true  to  say,  they  separate  as  oil 
from  water,  as  children  from  old  people,  without  love  or 
hatred  in  the  matter,  each  seeking  his  like;  and  any 
interference  with  the  affinities  would  produce  constraint 
and  suffocation.  All  conversation  is  a  magnetic  experi 
ment.  I  know  that  my  friend  can  talk  eloquently ;  you 
know  that  he  cannot  articulate  a  sentence  :  we  have  seen 
him  in  different  company.  Assort  your  party,  or  invite 
none.  Put  Stubbs  and  Coleridge,  Quintilian  and  Aunt 
Miriam,  into  pairs,  and  you  make  them  all  wretched. 
'T  is  an  extempore  Sing-Sing  built  in  a  parlor.  Leave 
them  to  seek  their  own  mates,  and  they  will  be  as  merry 
as  sparrows. 

A  higher  civility  will  re-establish  in   our  customs  a 


18  SOCIETY    AND    SOLITUDE. 

certain  reverence  which  we  have  lost.  What  to  do  with 
these  brisk  young  men  who  break  through  all  fences,  and 
make  themselves  at  home  in  every  house  ?  I  find  out  in 
an  instant  if  my  companion  does  not  want  me,  and  ropes 
cannot  hold  me  when  my  welcome  is  gone.  One  would 
think  that  the  affinities  would  pronounce  themselves  with 
a  surer  reciprocity. 

Here  again,  as  so  often,  Nature  delights  to  put  us  be 
tween  extreme  antagonisms,  and  our  safety  is  in  the  skill 
with  which  we  keep  the  diagonal  line.  Solitude  is  im 
practicable,  and  society  fatal.  We  must  keep  our  head 
in  the  one  and  our  hands  in  the  other.  The  conditions 
are  met,  if  we  keep  our  independence,  yet  do  not  lose 
our  sympathy.  These  wonderful  horses  need  to  be 
driven  by  fine  hands.  We  require  such  a  solitude  as 
shall  hold  us  to  its  revelations  when  we  are  in  the  street 
and  in  palaces  ;  for  most  men  are  cowed  in  society,  and 
say  good  things  to  you  in  private,  but  will  not  stand  to 
them  in  public.  But  let  us  not  be  the  victims  of  words. 
Society  and  solitude  are  deceptive  names.  It  is  not  the 
circumstance  of  seeing  more  or  fewer  people,  but  the 
readiness  of  sympathy,  that  imports  ;  and  a  sound  mind 
will  derive  its  principles  from  insight,  with  ever  a  purer 
ascent  to  the  sufficient  and  absolute  right,  and  will  accept 
society  as  the  natural  element  in  which  they  are  to  be 
applied. 


CIVILIZATION. 


CIVILIZATION. 


A  CERTAIN  degree  of  progress  from  the  rudest  state  in 
which  man  is  found,  —  a  dweller  in  caves,  or  on  trees, 
like  an  ape,  —  a  cannibal,  and  eater  of  pounded  snails, 
worms,  and  offal,  —  a  certain  degree  of  progress  from 
this  extreme  is  called  Civilization.  It  is  a  vague,  com 
plex  name,  of  many  degrees.  Nobody  has  attempted  a 
definition.  Mr.  Guizot,  writing  a  book  on  the  subject, 
does  not.  It  implies  the  evolution  of  a  highly  organized 
man,  brought  to  supreme  delicacy  of  sentiment,  as  in 
practical  power,  religion,  liberty,  sense  of  honor,  and 
taste.  In  the  hesitation  to  define  what  it  is,  we  usually 
suggest  it  by  negations.  A  nation  that  has  no  clothing, 
no  iron,  no  alphabet,  no  marriage,  no  arts  of  peace,  no 
abstract  thought,  we  call  barbarous.  And  after  many  arts 
are  invented  or  imported,  as  among  the  Turks  and  Moor 
ish  nations,  it  is  often  a  little  complaisant  to  call  them  civ 
ilized. 

Each  nation  grows  after  its  own  genius,  and  has  a  civ 
ilization  of  its  own.  The  Chinese  and  Japanese,  though 
each  complete  in  his  way,  is  different  from  the  man  of 
Madrid  or  the  man  of  New  York.  The  term  imports  a 
mysterious  progress.  In  the  brutes  is  none  ;  and  in  man 
kind  to-day  the  savage  tribes  are  gradually  extinguished 


22  CIVILIZATION. 

rather  than  civilized.  The  Indians  of  this  country  have 
not  learned  the  white  man's  work;  and  in  Africa,  the 
negro  of  to-day  is  the  negro  of  Herodotus.  In  other 
races  the  growth  is  not  arrested ;  but  the  like  progress 
that  is  made  by  a  boy  "when  he  cuts  his  eye-teeth,"  as 
we  say,  —  childish  illusions  passing  daily  away,  and  he 
seeing  things  really  and  comprehensively,  —  is  made  by 
tribes.  It  is  the  learning  the  secret  of  cumulative  power, 
of  advancing  on  one's  self.  It  implies  a  facility  of  asso 
ciation,  power  to  compare,  the  ceasing  from  fixed  ideas. 
The  Indian  is  gloomy  and  distressed  when  urged  to  de 
part  from  his  habits  and  traditions.  He  is  overpowered 
by  the  gaze  of  the  white,  and  his  eye  sinks.  The  occasion 
of  one  of  these  starts  of  growth  is  always  some  novelty 
that  astounds  the  mind,  and  provokes  it  to  dare  to  change. 
Thus  there  is  a  Cadmus,  a  Pytheas,  a  Manco  Capac  at 
the  beginning  of  each  improvement,  —  some  superior  for 
eigner  importing  new  and  wonderful  arts,  and  teaching 
them.  Of  course,  he  must  not  know  too  much,  but  must 
have  the  sympathy,  language,  and  gods  of  those  he  would 
inform.  But  chiefly  the  sea-shore  has  been  the  point  of 
departure  to  knowledge,  as  to  commerce.  The  most  ad 
vanced  nations  are  always  those  who  navigate  the  most. 
The  power  which  the  sea  requires  in  the  sailor  makes  a 
man  of  him  very  fast,  and  the  change  of  shores  and  popu 
lation  clears  his  head  of  much  nonsense  of  his  wigwam. 

Where  shall  we  begin  or  end  the  list  of  those  feats  of 
liberty  and  wit,  each  of  which  feats  made  an  epoch  of 
history  ?  Thus,  the  effect  of  a  framed  or  stone  house 
is  immense  on  the  tranquillity,  power,  and  refinement 
of  the  builder.  A  man  in  a  cave  or  in  a  camp,  a  no- 


CIVILIZATION.  23 

mad,  will  die  with  no  more  estate  than  tlie  wolf  or  the 
horse  leaves.  But  so  simple  a  labor  as  a  house  being 
achieved,  his  chief  enemies  are  kept  at  bay.  He  is  safe 
from  the  teeth  of  wild  animals,  from  frost,  sun-stroke, 
and  weather ;  and  fine  faculties  begin  to  yield  their  fine 
harvest.  Invention  and  art  are  born,  manners  and  social 
beauty  and  delight.  'T  is  wonderful  how  soon  a  piano 
gets  into  a  log-hut  on  the  frontier.  You  would  think 
they  found  it  under  a  pine  stump.  With  it  comes  a 
Latin  grammar, — and  one  of  those  tow-head  boys  has 
written  a  hymn  on  Sunday.  Now  let  colleges,  now  let 
senates  take  heed!  for  here  is  one  who,  opening  these 
fine  tastes  on  the  basis  of  the  pioneer's  iron  constitution, 
will  gather  all  their  laurels  in  his  strong  hands. 

When  the  Indian  trail  gets  widened,  graded,  and 
bridged  to  a  good  road,  there  is  a  benefactor,  there  is  a 
missionary,  a  pacificator,  a  wealth-bringer,  a  maker  of 
markets,  a  vent  for  industry.  Another  step  in  civility 
is  the  change  from  war,  hunting,  and  pasturage  to  agri 
culture.  Our  Scandinavian  forefathers  have  left  us  a 
significant  legend  to  convey  their  sense  of  the  impor 
tance  of  this  step.  "  There  was  once  a  giantess  who  had 
a  daughter,  and  the  child  saw  a  husbandman  ploughing 
in  the  field.  Then  she  ran  and  picked  him  up  with  her 
finger  and  thumb,  and  put  him  and  his  plough  and  his 
oxen  into  her  apron,  and  carried  them  to  her  mother,  and 
said,  '  Mother,  what  sort  of  a  beetle  is  this  that  I  found 
wriggling  in  the  sand  ?  '  But  the  mother  said,  '  Put  it 
away,  my  child;  we  must  begone  out  of  this  land,  for 
these  people  will  dwell  in  it.'  "  Another  success  is  the 
post-offi.ce,  with  its  educating  energy  augmented  by 


24  CIVILIZATION. 

cheapness  and  guarded  by  a  certain  religious  sentiment 
in  mankind ;  so  that  the  power  of  a  water  or  a  drop  of 
wax  or  gluten  to  guard  a  letter,  as  it  flies  over  sea,  over 
land,  and  comes  to  its  address  as  if  a  battalion  of  artil 
lery  brought  it,  I  look  upon  as  a  fine  meter  of  civiliza 
tion. 

The  division  of  labor,  the  multiplication  of  the  arts  of 
peace,  which  is  nothing  but  a  large  allowance  to  each 
man  to  choose  his  work  according  to  his  faculty,  —  to 
live  by  his  better  hand,  —  fills  the  State  with  useful  and 
happy  laborers  ;  and  they,  creating  demand  by  the  very 
temptation  of  their  productions,  are  rapidly  and  surely 
rewarded  by  good  sale  :  and  what  a  police  and  ten  com 
mandments  their  work  thus  becomes.  So  true  is  Dr. 
Johnson's  remark  that  "  men  are  seldom  more  innocently 
employed  than  when  they  are  making  money." 

The  skilful  combinations  of  civil  government,  though 
they  usually  follow  natural  leadings,  as  the  lines  of  race, 
language,  religion,  and  territory,  yet  require  wisdom  and 
conduct  in  the  rulers,  and  in  their  result  delight  the 
imagination.  "  We  see  insurmountable  multitudes  obey 
ing,  in  opposition  to  their  strongest  passions,  the  re 
straints  of  a  power  which  they  scarcely  perceive,  and  the 
crimes  of  a  single  individual  marked  and  punished  at  the 
distance  of  half  the  earth."  * 

llight  position  of  woman  in  the  State  is  another  index. 
Poverty  and  industry  with  a  healthy  mind  read  very 
easily  the  laws  of  humanity,  and  love  them  :  place  the 
sexes  in  right  relations  of  mutual  respect,  and  a  severe 

*  Dr.  Thomas  Brown. 


CIVILIZATION.  25 

morality  gives  that  essential  charm  to  woman  which 
educates  all  that  is  delicate,  poetic,  and  self-sacrificing, 
breeds  courtesy  and  learning,  conversation  and  wit,  in 
her  rough  mate  ;  so  that  I  have  thought  a  sufficient 
measure  of  civilization  is  the  influence  of  good  women. 

Another  measure  of  culture  is  the  diffusion  of  knowl-  v  - 
edge,  overrunning  all  the  old  barriers  of  caste,  and,  by 
the  cheap  press,  bringing  the  university  to  every  poor 
man's  door  in  the  newsboy's  basket.  Scraps  of  science, 
of  thought,  of  poetry,  are  in  the  coarsest  sheet,-  so  that  in 
every  house  we  hesitate  to  burn  a  newspaper  until  we 
have  looked  it  through. 

The  ship,  in  its  latest  complete  equipment,  is  an 
abridgment  and  compend  of  a  nation's  arts  :  the  ship 
steered  by  compass  and  chart,  — longitude  reckoned  by 
lunar  observation  and  by  chronometer,  —  driven  by 
steam ;  and  in  wildest  sea- mountains,  at  vast  distances 
from  home, 

"  The  pulses  of  her  iron  heart 
Go  beating  through  the  storm." 

No  use  can  lessen  the  wonder  of  this  control,  by  so 
weak  a  creature,  or  forces  so  prodigious.  I  remember 
I  watched,  in  crossing  the  sea,  the  beautiful  skill  where 
by  the  engine  in  its  constant  working  was  made  to  pro 
duce  two  hundred  gallons  of  fresh  water  out  of  salt 
water,  every  hour,  —  thereby  supplying  all  the  ship's 
want. 

The  skill  that  pervades  complex  details ;  the  man  that 
maintains  himself;  the  chimney  taught  to  burn  its  own 
smoke  ;  the  farm  made  to  produce  all  that  is  consumed 
2 


26  CIVILIZATION. 

on  it ;  the  very  prison  compelled  to  maintain  itself  and 
yield  a  revenue,  and,  better  still,  made  a  reform  school, 
and  a  manufactory  of  honest  men  out  of  rogues,  as  the 
steamer  made  fresh  water  out  of  salt, —all  these  are 
examples  of  that  tendency  to  combine  antagonisms,  and 
utilize  evil,  which  is  the  index  of  high  civilization. 

Civilization  is  the  result  of  highly  complex  organiza 
tion.  In  the  snake,  all  the  organs  are  sheathed;  no 
hands,  no  feet,  no  fins,  no  wings.  In  bird  and  beast, 
the  organs  are  released,  and  begin  to  play.  In  man, 
they  are  all  unbound,  and  full  of  joyful  action.  "With 
this  unswaddling  he  receives  the  absolute  illumination 
we  call  Reason,  and  thereby  true  liberty. 

Climate  has  much  to  do  with  this  melioration.  The 
highest  civility  has  never  loved  the  hot  zones.  Wher 
ever  snow  falls,  there  is  usually  civil  freedom.  Where 
the  banana  grows,  the  animal  system  is  indolent  and 
pampered  at  the  cost  of  higher  qualities  :  the  man  is  sen 
sual  and  cruel.  But  this  scale  is  not  invariable.  High 
degrees  of  moral  sentiment  control  the  unfavorable  in 
fluences  of  climate  ;  and  some  of  our  grandest  examples 
of  men  and  of  races  come  from  the  equatorial  regions,  — 
as  the  genius  of  Egypt,  of  India,  and  of  Arabia. 

These  feats  are  measures  or  traits  of  civility ;  and  tem 
perate  climate  is  an  important  influence,  though  not  quite 
indispensable,  for  there  have  been  learning,  philosophy, 
and  art  in  Iceland,  and  in  the  tropics.  But  one  condi 
tion  is  essential  to  the  social  education  of  man,  namely, 
morality.  There  can  be  no  high  civility  without  a  deep 
morality,  though  it  may  not  always  call  itself  by  that 
name,  but  sometimes  the  point  of  honor,  as  in  the  insti- 


CIVILIZATION.  27 

tution  of  chivalry ;  or  patriotism,  as  in  the  Spartan  and 
lloman  republics ;  or  the  enthusiasm  of  some  religious 
sect  which  imputes  its  virtue  to  its  dogma ;  or  the  cab- 
alism,  or  esprit  de  corps,  of  a  masonic  or  other  associa 
tion  of  friends. 

The  evolution  of  a  highly  destined  society  must  be 
moral ;  it  must  run  in  the  grooves  of  the  celestial  wheels. 
It  must  be  catholic  in  aims.  What  is  moral  ?  It  is  the 
respecting  in  action  catholic  or  universal  ends.  Hear 
the  definition  which  Kant  gives  of  moral  conduct :  "  Act 
always  so  that  the  immediate  motive  of  thy  will  may  be 
come  a  universal  rule  for  all  intelligent  beings." 

Civilization  depends  on  morality.  Everything  good  in 
man  leans  on  what  is  higher.  This  rule  holds  in  small 
as  in  great.  Thus,  all  our  strength  and  success  in  the 
work  of  our  hands  depend  on  our  borrowing  the  aid  of 
the  elements.  You  have  seen  a  carpenter  on  a  ladder 
with  a  broad-axe  chopping  upward  chips  from  a  beam. 
How  awkward  !  at  what  disadvantage  he  works  !  But 
see  him  on  the  ground,  dressing  his  timber  under  him. 
Now,  not  his  feeble  muscles,  but  the  force  of  gravity 
brings  down  the  axe  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  planet  itself 
splits  his  stick.  The  farmer  had  much  ill-temper,  lazi 
ness,  and  shirking  to  endure  from  his  hand-sawyers, 
until  one  day  he  bethought  him  to  put  his  saw-mill  on 
the  edge  of  a  waterfall ;  and  the  river  never  tires  of 
turning  his  wheel :  the  river  is  good-natured,  and  never 
hints  an  objection. 

We  had  letters  to  send :  couriers  could  not  go  fast 
enough,  nor  far  enough ;  broke  their  wagons,  foundered 
their  horses;  bad  roads  in  spring,  snow-drifts  in  win- 


28  CIVILIZATION. 

ter,  heats  in  summer ;  could  not  get  the  horses  out  of  a 
walk. 

But  we  found  out  that  the  air  and  earth  were  full  of 
Electricity;  and  always  going  our  way, — just  the  way 
we  wanted  to  send.  Would  he  take  a  message  ?  Just 
as  lief  as  not ;  had  nothing  else  to  do ;  would  carry  it  in 
no  time.  Only  one  doubt  occurred,  one  staggering  ob 
jection,  —  he  had  no  carpet-bag,  no  visible  pockets,  no 
hands,  not  so  much  as  a  mouth,  to  carry  a  letter.  But, 
after  much  thought  and  many  experiments,  we  managed 
to  meet  the  conditions,  and  to  fold  up  the  letter  in  such 
invisible  compact  form  as  he  could  carry  in  those  invisi 
ble  pockets  of  his,  never  wrought  by  needle  and  thread, 
—  and  it  went  like  a  charm. 

I  admire  still  more  than  the  saw-mill  the  skill  which, 
on  the  sea-shore,  makes  the  tides  drive  the  wheels  and 
grind  corn,  and  which  thus  engages  the  assistance  of  the 
moon,  like  a  hired  hand,  to  grind,  and  wind,  and  pump, 
and  saw,  and  split  stone,  and  roll  iron. 

Now  that  is  the  wisdom  of  a  man,  in  every  instance  of 
his  labor,  to  hitch  his  wagon  to  a  star,  and  see  his  chore 
done  by  the  gods  themselves.  That  is  the  way  we  are 
strong,  by  borrowing  the  might  of  the  elements.  The 
forces  of  steam,  gravity,  galvanism,  light,  magnets,  wrind, 
fire,  serve  us  day  by  day,  and  cost  us  nothing. 

Our  astronomy  is  full  of  examples  of  calling  in  the  aid 
of  these  magnificent  helpers.  Thus,  on  a  planet  so  small 
as  ours,  the  want  of  an  adequate  base  for  astronomical 
measurements  is  early  felt,  as,  for  example,  in  detecting 
the  parallax  of  a  star.  But  the  astronomer,  having  by 
an  observation  fixed  the  place  of  a  star,  by  so  simple  an 


CIVILIZATION.  29 

expedient  as  waiting  six  months,  and  then  repeating  his 
observation,  contrived  to  put  the  diameter  of  the  earth's 
orbit,  say  two  hundred  millions  of  miles,  between  his 
first  observation  and  his  second,  and  this  line  afforded 
him  a  respectable  base  for  his  triangle. 

All  our  arts  aim  to  win  this  vantage.  We  cannot 
bring  the  heavenly  powers  to  us,  but,  if  we  will  only 
choose  our  jobs  in  directions  in  which  they  travel,  they 
will  undertake  them  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  It  is 
a  peremptory  rule  with  them,  that  they  never  go  out  of 
their  road.  We  are  dapper  little  busybodies,  and  run 
this  way  and  that  way  superserviceably ;  but  they  swerve 
never  from  their  foreordained  paths,  —  neither  the  sun, 
nor  the  moon,  nor  a  bubble  of  air,  nor  a  mote  of  dust. 

And  as  our  handiworks  borrow  the  elements,  so  all  our 
social  and  political  action  leans  on  principles.  To  accom 
plish  anything  excellent,  the  will  must  work  for  catholic 
and  universal  ends.  A  puny  creature  walled  in  on  every 
side,  as  Daniel  wrote,  — 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man !  " 

but  when  his  will  leans  on  a  principle,  when  he  is  the 
vehicle  of  ideas,  he  borrows  their  omnipotence.  Gibral 
tar  may  be  strong,  but  ideas  are  impregnable,  and  bestow 
on  the  hero  their  invincibility.  "  It  was  a  great  instruc 
tion,"  said  a  saint  in  Cromwell's  war,  "that  the  best 
courages  are  but  beams  of  the  Almighty."  Hitch  your 
wagon  to  a  star.  Let  us  not  fag  in  paltry  works  which 
serve  our  pot  and  bag  alone.  Let  us  not  lie  and  steal. 
No  god  will  help.  We  shall  find  all  their  teams  going  the 


CIVILIZATION. 

other  way,  —  Charles's  Wain,  Great  Bear,  Orion,  Leo 
Hercules:  every  god  will  leave  us.  Work  rather  for 
those  interests  which  the  divinities  honor  and  promote, 
—  justice,  love,  freedom,  knowledge,  utility. 

If  we  can  thus  ride  in  Olympian  chariots  by  putting 
our  works  in  the  path  of  the  celestial  circuits,  we  can 
harness  also  evil  agents,  the  powers  of  darkness,  and 
force  them  to  serve  against  their  will  the  ends  of  wisdom 
and  virtue.  Thus,  a  wise  government  puts  fines  and 
penalties  on  pleasant  vices.  What  a  benefit  would  the 
American  government,  not  yet  relieved  of  its  extreme 
need,  render  to  itself,  and  to  every  city,  village,  and 
hamlet  in  the  States,  if  it  would  tax  whiskey  and'  rum 
almost  to  the  point  of  prohibition !  Was  it  Bonaparte 

who  said  that  he  found  vices  very  good  patriots ? "he 

got  five  millions  from  the  love  of  brandy,  and  he  should 
be  glad  to  know  which  of  the  virtues  would  pay  him  as 
much."  Tobacco  and  opium  have  broad  backs,  and  will 
cheerfully  carry  the  load  of  armies,  if  you  choose  to 
make  them  pay  high  for  such  joy  as  they  give  and  such 
harm  as  they  do. 

These  are  traits,  and  measures,  and  modes  ;  and  the 
true  test  of  civilization  is,  not  the  census,  nor  the  size 
of  cities,  nor  the  crops,— no,  but  the  kind  of  man  the 
country  turns  out.  I  see  the  vast  advantages  of  this 
country,  spanning  the  breadth  of  the  temperate  zone.  I 
see  the  immense  material  prosperity,  —  towns  on  towns, 
states  on  states,  and  wealth  piled  in  the  massive  archi 
tecture  of  cities;  California  quartz-mountains  dumped 
down  in  New  York  to  be  replied  architecturally  along, 
shore  from  Canada  to  Cuba,  and  thence  westward  to  Cal- 


CIVILIZATION.  31 

ifornia  again.   But  it  is  not  New  York  streets  built  by  the 
confluence  of  workmen  and  wealth  of  all  nations,  though 
stretching  out  towards  Philadelphia  until  they  touch  it, 
and  northward  until  they  touch  New  Haven,  Hartford, 
Springfield,  Worcester,   and   Boston, —not   these  that 
make  the  real  estimation.     But,  when  I  look  over  this 
constellation  of  cities  which  animate  and  illustrate  the 
land,  and  see  how  little  the  government  has  to  do  with 
their  daily  life,  how  self-helped  and  self-directed  all  fain- 
ilies  are,— knots  of  men  in  purely  natural  societies,— 
societies  of  trade,  of  kindred  blood,  of  habitual  hospital 
ity,  house  and  house,  man  acting  on  man  by  weight  of 
opinion,  of  longer  or  better-directed  industry,  the  refin 
ing  influence  of  women,  the  invitation  which  experience 
and  permanent  causes  open  to  youth  and  labor,  —  wlien 
I  see  how  much  each  virtuous  and  gifted  person,  whom 
all  men  consider,  lives  affectionately  with  scores  of  excel 
lent  people  who  are  not  known  far  from  home,  and  per 
haps  with  great  reason  reckons  these  people  his  superiors 
in  "virtue,  and  in  the  symmetry  and  force  of  their  quali 
ties,  I  see  what  cubic  values  America  has,  and  in  these 
a  better  certificate  of  civilization  than  great  cities  or 
enormous  wealth. 

In  strictness,  the  vital  refinements  are  tiie  moral  and 
intellectual  steps.  The  appearance  of  the  Hebrew  Mo 
ses,  of  the  Indian  Buddh,  —  in  Greece,  of  the  Seven 
Wise  Masters,  of  the  acute  and  upright  Socrates,  and  of 
the  Stoic  Zeno,  —  in  Judasa,  the  advent  of  Jesus,  —and 
in  modern  Christendom,  of  the  realists  Huss,  Savonarola, 
and  Luther,  are  causal  facts  which  carry  forward  races 
to  new  convictions,  and  elevate  the  rule  of  life.  In  the 


£  CIVILIZATION. 

presence  of  these  agencies,  it  is  frivolous  to  insist  on 
the  invention  of  printing  or  gunpowder,  of  steam-power 
or  gas-light,  percussion-caps  and  rubber-shoes,  which  are 
toys  thrown  off  from  that  security,  freedom,  and  exhil 
aration  which  a  healthy  morality  creates  in  society. 
These  arts  add  a  comfort  and  smoothness  to  house  and 
street  life ;  but  a  purer  morality,  which  kindles  genius, 
civilizes  civilization,  casts  backward  all  that  we  held 
sacred  into  the  profane,  as  the  flame  of  oil  throws  a 
shadow  when  shined  upon  by  the  flame  of  the  Bude- 
light.  Not  the  less  the  popular  measures  of  progress 
will  ever  be  the  arts  and  the  laws. 

But  if  there  be  a  country  which  cannot  stand  any  one 
of  these  tests,  —  a  country  where  knowledge  cannot  be 
diffused  without  perils  of  mob-law  and  statute-law,  — 
where  speech  is  not  free,  —  where  the  post-office  is  vio 
lated,  mail-bags  opened,  and  letters  tampered  with,  — 
where  public  debts  and  private  debts  outside  of  the  State 
are  repudiated,  —  where  liberty  is  attacked  in  the  primary 
institution  of  social  life,  —  where  the  position  of  the 
white  woman  is  injuriously  affected  by  the  outlawry  of 
the  black  woman,  —  where  the  arts,  such  as  they  have, 
are  all  imported,  having  no  indigenous  life,  • — where  the 
laborer  is  not  secured  in  the  earnings  of  his  own  hands, 
—  where  suffrage  is  not  free  or  equal,  —  that  country  is, 
in  all  these  respects,  not  civil,  but  barbarous ;  and  no 
advantages  of  soil,  climate,  or  coast  can  resist  these  sui 
cidal  mischiefs. 

Morality  and  all  the  incidents  of  morality  are  essen 
tial;  as,  justice  to  the  citizen,  and  personal  liberty. 
Montesquieu  says  :  "  Countries  are  well  cultivated,  not 


CIVILIZATION.  33 

as  they  are  fertile,  but  as  they  are  free  "  ;  and  the  re 
mark  holds  not  less  but  more  true  of  the  culture  of  men, 
than  of  the  tillage  of  land.  And  the  highest  proof  of 
civility  is,  that  the  whole  public  action  of  the  State  is 
directed  on  securing  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest 
number. 


ART. 


ART. 


ALL  departments  of  life  at  the  present  day  —  Trade, 
Politics,  Letters,  Science,  or  Religion  —  seem  to  feel, 
and  to  labor  to  express,  the  identity  of  their  law.  They 
are  rays  of  one  sun ;  they  translate  each  into  a  new  lan 
guage  the  sense  of  the  other.  They  are  sublime  when 
seen  as  emanations  of  a  Necessity  contradistinguished 
from  the  vulgar  Fate,  by  being  instant  and  alive,  and 
dissolving  man,  as  well  as  his  works,  in  its  flowing  benefi 
cence.  This  influence  is  conspicuously  visible  in  the 
principles  and  history  of  Art. 

On  one  side  in  primary  communication  with  absolute 
truth  through  thought  and  instinct,  the  human  mind  on 
the  other  side  tends,  by  an  equal  necessity,  to  the  publi 
cation  and  embodiment  of  its  thought-,  modified  and 
dwarfed  by  the  impurity  and  untruth  which,  in  all  our 
experience,  injure  the  individuality  through  which  it 
passes.  The  child  not  only  suffers,  but  cries  ;  not  only 
hungers,  but  eats.  The  man  not  only  thinks,  but  speaks 
and  acts.  Every  thought  that  arises  in  the  mind,  in  its 
rising  aims  to  pass  out  of  the  mind  into  act;  just  as 
every  plant,  in  the  moment  of  germination,  struggles  up 
to  light.  Thought  is  the  seed  of  action  ;  but  action  is  as 
much  its  second  form  as  thought  is  its  first.  It  rises  in 


38  ART. 

thought,  to  the  end  that  it  may  be  uttered  and  acted. 
The  more  profound  the  thought,  the  more  burdensome. 
Always  in  proportion  to  the  depth  of  its  sense  does  it 
knock  importunately  at  the  gates  of  the  soul,  to  be 
spoken,  to  be  done.  What  is  in,  will  out.  It  struggles 
to  the  birth.  Speech  is  a  great  pleasure,  and  action  a 
great  pleasure ;  they  cannot  be  foreborne. 

The  utterance  of  thought  and  emotion  in  speech  and 
action  may  be  conscious  or  unconscious.  The  sucking 
child  is  an  unconscious  actor.  The  man  in  an  ecstasy  of 
fear  or  anger  is  an  unconscious  actor.  A  large  part  of 
our  habitual  actions  are  unconsciously  done,  and  most 
of  our  necessary  words  are  unconsciously  said. 

The  conscious  utterance  of  thought,  by  speech  or 
action,  to  any  end,  is  Art.  From  the  first  imitative 
babble  of  a  child  to  the  despotism  of  eloquence,  from  his 
first  pile  of  toys  or  chip  bridge  to  the  masonry  of  Minot 
llock  Lighthouse  or  the  Pacific  Railroad,  from  the 
tattooing  of  the  Ovvhyhees  to  the  Vatican  Gallery,  from 
the  simplest  expedient  of  private  prudence  to  the  Ameri 
can  Constitution,  from  its  first  to  its  last  works,  Art  is 
the  spirit's  voluntary  use  and  combination  of  things  to 
serve  its  end.  The  Will  distinguishes  it  as  spiritual 
action.  Relatively  to  themselves,  the  bee,  the  bird,  the 
beaver,  have  no  art ;  for  what  they  do,  they  do  instinc 
tively  ;  but  relatively  to  the  Supreme  Being,  they  have. 
And  the  same  is  true  of  all  unconscious  action  :  relatively 
to  the  doer,  it  is  instinct ;  relatively  to  the  First  Cause, 
it  is  Art.  In  this  sense,  recognizing  the  Spirit  which  in 
forms  Nature,  Plato  rightly  said,  "  Those  things  which 
are  said  to  be  done  by  Nature  are  indeed  done  by  Divine 


ART.  39 

Art."  Art,  universally,  is  the  spirit  creative.  It  was 
defined  by  Aristotle,  "  The  reason  of  the  thing,  without 
the  matter." 

If  we  follow  the  popular  distinction  of  works  accord 
ing  to  their  aim,  we  should  say,  the  Spirit,  in  its  creation, 
aims^at  use  or  at  beauty,  and  hence  Art  divides  itself  into 
tlio  Useful  and  the  Fine  Arts. 

The  useful  arts  comprehend  not  only  those  that  lie 
next  to  instinct,  as  agriculture,  building,  weaving,  etc., 
but  also  navigation,  practical  chemistry,  and  the  con 
struction  of  all  the  grand  and  delicate  tools  and  instru 
ments  by  which  man  serves  himself;  as  language,  the 
watch,  the  ship,  the  decimal  cipher;  and  also  the 
sciences,  so  far  as  they  are  made  serviceable  to  political 
economy. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  pleasure  we  receive  from  a 
ship,  a  railroad,  a  dry-dock,  or  from  a  picture,  a  dra 
matic  representation,  a  statue,  a  poem,  we  find  that  these 
have  not  a  quite  simple,  but  a  blended  origin.  We  find 
that  the  question,  What  is  Art?  leads  us  directly  to 
another,  —  Who  is  the  artist  ?  and  the  solution  of  this  is 
the  key  to  the  history  of  Art. 

I  hasten  to  state  the  principle  which  prescribes, 
through  different  means,  its  firm  law  to  the  useful  and 
the  beautiful  arts.  The  law  is  this.  The  universal  soul 
is  the  alone  creator  of  the  useful  and  the  beautiful ; 
therefore,  to  make  anything  useful  or  beautiful,  the  in 
dividual  must  be  submitted  to  the  universal  mind. 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  consider  this  in  reference  to 
the  useful  arts.  Here  f he  omnipotent  agent  is  Nature; 
all  human  acts  are  satellites  to  her  orb.  Nature  is  the 


40  ART. 

representative  of  the  universal  mind,  and  the  law  becomes 
this,  —  that  Art  must  he  a  complement  to  nature,  strictly 
subsidiary.  It  was  said,  in  allusion  to  the  great  struc 
tures  of  the  ancient  Romans,  —  the  aqueducts  and 
bridges,  —  that  "  their  Art  was  a  Nature  working  to 
municipal  ends."  That  is  a  true  account  of  all  just 
works  of  useful  art.  Smeatou  built  Eddystone  Light 
house  on  the  model  of  an  oak-tree,  as  being  the  form  in 
nature  best  designed  to  resist  a  constant  assailing  force. 
Dollond  formed  his  achromatic  telescope  on  the  model 
of  the  human  eye.  Duhamel  built  a  bridge  by  letting  in 
a  piece  of  stronger  timber  for  the  middle  of  the  under 
surface,  getting  his  hint  from  the  structure  of  the  shin- 
bone. 

The  first  and  last  lesson  of  the  useful  arts  is,  that 
Nature  tyrannizes  over  our  works.  They  must  be  con 
formed  to  her  law,  or  they  will  be  ground  to  powder  by 
her  omnipresent  activity.  Nothing  droll,  nothing  whim 
sical,  will  endure.  Nature  is  ever  interfering  with  Art. 
You  cannot  build  your  house  or  pagoda  as  you  will,  but 
as  you  must.  There  is  a  quick  bound  set  to  your  caprice. 
The  leaning  tower  can  only  lean  so  far.  The  veranda  or 
pagoda  roof  can  curve  upward  only  to  a  certain  point. 
The  slope  of  your  roof  is  determined  by  the  weight  of 
snow.  It  is  only  within  narrow  limits  that  the  discretion 
of  the  architect  may  range :  gravity,  wind,  sun,  rain,  {Tie 
size  of  men  and  animals,  and  such  like,  have  more  to  say 
than  he.  It  is  the  law  of  fluids  that  prescribes  the  shape 
of  the  boat,  —  keel,  rudder,  and  bows,  —  and,  in  the  finer 
fluid  above,  the  form  and  tackle  of  the  sails.  Man  seems 
to  have  no  option  about  his  tools,  but  merely  the  ncccs- 


ART.  41 

sity  to  learn  from  Nature  what  will  fit  best,  as  if  lie  were 
fitting  a  screw  or  a  door.  Beneath  a  necessity  thus 
almighty,  what  is  artificial  in  man's  life  seems  insignifi 
cant.  He  seems  to  take  his  task  so  minutely  from  inti 
mations  of  Nature,  that  his  works  become  as  it  were  hers, 
and  he  is  no  longer  free. 

But  if  we  work  within  this  limit,  she  yields  us  all  her 
strength.  All  powerful  action  is  performed  by  bringing 
the  forces  of  nature  to  bear  upon  our  objects.  We  do 
not  grind  corn  or  lift  the  loom  by  our  own  strength,  but 
we  build  a  mill  in  such  position  as  to  set  the  north-wind 
to  play  upon  our  instrument,  or  the  elastic  force  of  steam, 
or  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea.  So,  in  our  handiwork, 
we  do  few  things  by  muscular  force,  but  we  place  our 
selves  in  such  attitudes  as  to  bring  the  force  of  gravity, 
that  is,  the  weight  of  the  planet,  to  bear  upon  the  spade 
or  the  axe  we  wield.  In  short,  in  all  our  operations  we 
seek  not  to  use  our  own,  but  to  bring  a  quite  infinite 
force  to  bear. 

Let  us  now  consider  this  law  as  it  affects  the  works 
that  have  beauty  for  their  end,  that  is,  the  productions  of 
the  Fine  Arts.  Here  again  the  prominent  fact  is  subor 
dination  of  man.  His  art  is  the  least  part  of  his  work 
of  art.  A  great  deduction  is  to  be  made  before  we  can 
know  his  proper  contribution  to  it. 

Music,  Eloquence,  Poetry,  Painting,  Sculpture,  Archi 
tecture.  This  js  a  rough  enumeration  of  the  Fine  Arts. 
I  omit  Rhetoric,  which  only  respects  the  form  of  elo 
quence  and  poetry.  Architecture  and  eloquence  are 
mixed  arts,  whose  end  is  sometimes  beauty  and  some 
times  use. 


42  ART. 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  each  of  these  arts  there  is  much 
which  is  not  spiritual.  Each  has  a  material  basis,  and  in 
each  the  creating  intellect  is  crippled  in  some  degree  by 
the  stuff  on  which  it  works.  The  basis  of  poetry  is  lan 
guage,  which  is  material  only  on  one  side.  It  is  a  demi 
god.  But  being  applied  primarily  to  the  common  neces 
sities  of  man,  it  is  not  new-created  by  the  poet  for  his 
own  ends. 

The  basis  of  music  is  the  qualities  of  the  air  and 
the  vibrations  of  sonorous  bodies.  The  pulsation  of  a 
stretched  string  or  wire  gives  the  ear  the  pleasure  of 
sweet  sound,  before  yet  the  musician  has  enhanced  this 
pleasure  by  concords  and  combinations. 

Eloquence,  as  far  as  it  is  a  fine  art,  is  modified  how- 
much  by  the  material  organization  of  the  orator,  the  tone 
of  the  voice,  the  physical  strength,  the  play  of  the  eye 
and  countenance.  All  this  is  so  much  deduction  from  the 
purely  spiritual  pleasure,  —  as  so  much  deduction  from 
the  merit  of  Art,  —  and  is  the  attribute  of  Nature. 

In  painting,  bright  colors  stimulate  the  eye,  before  yet 

they  are  harmonized  into  a  landscape.     In  sculpture  and 

in  architecture  the  material,  as  marble  or  granite,  and 

in  architecture  the  mass,  are  sources  of  great  pleasure, 

quite  independent  of  the  artificial  arrangement.     The  art 

resides  in  the  model,  in  the  plan ;    for  it  is  on  that  the 

genius  of  the  artist  is  expended,  not  on  the  statue  or  the 

temple.     Just  as  much  better  as  is  the  pplishcd  statue  of 

I  dazzling  marble  than  the  clay  model,  or  as  much  more 

•  impressive  as  is  the  granite  cathedral  or  pyramid  than  the 

;  ground-plan  or  profile  of  them  on  paper,  so  much  more 

beauty  owe  they  to  Nature  than  to  Art. 


ART.  43 

There  is  a  still  larger  deduction  to  be  made  from  the 
genius  of  the  artist  in  favor  of  Nature  than  I  have  yet 
specified. 

A  jumble  of  musical  sounds  on  a  viol  or  a  flute,  in 
which  the  rhythm  of  the  tune  is  played  without  one  of 
the  notes  being  right,  gives  pleasure  to  the  unskilful  car. 
A  very  coarse  imitation  of  the  human  form  on  canvas,  or 
in  wax-work,  —  a  coarse  sketch  in  colors  of  a  landscape, 
in  which  imitation  is.  all  that  is  attempted,  — these  things 
give  to  unpractised  eyes,  to  the  uncultured,  who  do  not 
ask  a  fine  spiritual  delight,  almost  as  much  pleasure  as  a 
statue  of  Canova  or  a  picture  of  Titian. 

And  in  the  statue  of  Canova,  or  the  picture  of  Titian, 
these  give  the  great  part  of  the  pleasure ;  they  are  the 
basis  on  which  the  fine  spirit  rears  a  higher  delight,  but 
to  which  these  are  indispensable. 

Another  deduction  from  the  genius  of  the  artist  is 
what  is  conventional  in  his  art,  of  which  there  is  much 
in  every  work  of  art.  Thus  how  much  is  there  that  is 
not  original  in  every  particular  building,  in  every  statue, 
in  every  tune,  painting,  poem,  or  harangue !— whatever 
is  national  or  usual ;  as  the  usage  of  building  all  Roman 
churches  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  the  prescribed  distribu 
tion  of  parts  of  a  theatre,  the  custom  of  draping  a  statue 
in  classical  costume.  Yet  who  will  deny  that  the  merely 
conventional  part  of  the  performance  contributes  much  to 
its  effect  ? 

One  consideration  more  exhausts,  I  believe,  all  the  de 
ductions  from  the  genius  of  the  artist  in  any  given  work. 
This  is  the  adventitious.  Thus  the  pleasure  that  a  noble 
temple  gives  us  is  only  in  part  owing  to  the  temple.  It 


44 


ART. 


is  exalted  by  the  beauty  of  sunlight,  the  play  of  the 
clouds,  the  landscape  around  it,  its  grouping  with  the 
houses,  trees,  and  towers  in  its  vicinity.  The  pleasure  of 
eloquence  is  in  greatest  part  owing  often  to  the  stimulus 
of  the  occasion  which  produces  it,  —  to  the  magic  of 
sympathy,  which  exalts  the  feeling  of  each  by  radiating 
on  him  the  feeling  of  all. 

The  effect  of  music  belongs  how  much  to  the  place, 
—  as  the  church,  or  the  moonlight  walk;  or  to  the 
company;  or,  if  on  the  stage,  to  what  went  before 
in  the  play,  or  to  the  expectation  of  what  shall  come 
after. 

In  poetry,  "  It  is  tradition  more  than  invention  that 
helps  the  poet  to  a  good  fable."  The  adventitious 
beauty  of  poetry  may  be  felt  in  the  greater  delight  which 
a  verse  gives  in  happy  quotation  than  in  the  poem. 

It  is  a  curious  proof  of  our  conviction  that  the  artist 
does  not  feel  himself  to  be  the  parent  of  his  work,  and  is 
as  much  surprised  at  the  effect  as  we,  that  we  are  so 
unwilling  to  impute  our  best  sense  of  any  work  of  art  to 
the  author.  The  highest  praise  we  can  attribute  to  any 
writer,  painter,  sculptor,  builder,  is,  that  he  actually 
possessed  the  thought  or  feeling  with  which  he  has  in 
spired  us.  We  hesitate  at  doing  Spenser  so  great  an 
honor  as  to  think  that  he  intended  by  his  allegory  the 
sense  we  affix  to  it.  We  grudge  to  Homer  the  wide 
human  circumspection  his  commeniafors  ascribe  to  him. 
Even  Shakspeare,  of  whom  we  can  believe  everything, 
we  think  indebted  to  Goethe  and  to  Coleridge  for  the 
wisdom  they  detect  in  his  Hamlet  and  Antony.  Espe- 
cially  have  we  this  infirmity  of  faith  in  contemporary 


ART.  45 


genius.  We  fear  that  Allston  and  Greenougli  did  not 
foresee  and  design  all  the  effect  they  produce  on  us. 

Our  arts  are  happy  hits.  We  are  like  the  musician 
on  the  lake,  whose  melody  is  sweeter  than  he  knows,  or 
like  a  traveller,  surprised  by  a  mountain  echo,  whose 
trivial  word  returns  to  him  in  romantic  thunders. 

In  view  of  these  facts,  I  say  that  the  power  of  Nature 
predominates  over  the  human  will  in  all  works  of  even 
the  fine  arts,  in  all  that  respects  their  material  and  exter 
nal  circumstances.  Nature  paints  the  best  part  of  the 
picture  ;  carves  the  best  part  of  the  statue ;  builds  the 
best  part  of  the  house ;  and  speaks  the  best  part  of  the 
oration.  For  all  the  advantages  to  which  I  have  ad 
verted  are  such  as  the  artist  did  not  consciously  produce. 
He  relied  on  their  aid,  he  put  himself  in  the  way  to  re 
ceive  aid  from  some  of  them  ;  but  he  saw  that  his  plant 
ing  and  his  watering  waited  for  the  sunlight  of  Nature, 
or  were  vain. 

Let  us  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  the  law  stated 
in  the  beginning  of  this  essay,  as  it  affects  the  purely 
spiritual  part  of  a  work  of  art. 

As,  in  useful  art,  so  far  as  it  is  useful,  the  work  must 
be  strictly  subordinated  to  the  laws  of  Nature,  so  as  to 
become  a  sort  of  continuation,  and  in  no  wise  a  contra 
diction  of  Nature  ;  so,  in  art  that  aims  at  beauty,  must 
the  parts  be  subordinated  to  Ideal  Nature,  and  every 
thing  individual  abstracted,  so  that  it  shall  be  the  produc 
tion  of  the  universal  soul. 

The  artist  who  is  to  produce  a  work  which  is  to  be 
admired,  not  by  his  friends  or  his  townspeople  or  his 
contemporaries,  but  by  all  men,  and  which  is  to  be  more 


46  ART. 

beautiful  to  the  eye  in  proportion  to  its  culture,  must  dis- 
individualize  himself,  and  be  a  man  of  no  party,  and  no 
manner,  and  no  age,  but  one  through  whom  the  soul 
of  all  men  circulates,  as  the  common  air  through  his 
lungs.  He  must  work  in  the  spirit  in  which  we  con 
ceive  a  prophet  to  speak,  or  an  angel  of  the  Lord  to  act  ; 
that  is,  he  is  not  to  speak  his  own  words,  or  do  his  own 
works,  or  think  his  own  thoughts,  but  he  is  to  be  an 
organ  through  which  the  universal  mind  acts. 

In  speaking  of  the  useful  arts,  I  pointed  to  the  fact 
that  we  do  not  dig,  or  grind,  or  hew,  by  our  muscular 
strength,  but  by  bringing  the  weight  of  the  planet  to  bear 
on  the  spade,  axe,  or  bar.  Precisely  analogous  to  this, 
in  the  fine  arts,  is  the  manner  of  our  intellectual  work. 
We  aim  to  hinder  our  individuality  from  acting.  So 
much  as  we  can  shove  aside  our  egotism,  our  prejudice, 
and  will,  and  bring  the  omniscience  of  reason  upon  the 
subject  before  us,  so  perfect  is  the  work.  The  wonders 
of  Shakspeare  are  things  which  he  saw  whilst  he  stood 
aside,  and  then  returned  to  record  them.  The  poet 
aims  at  getting  observations  without  aim  ;  to  subject  to 
thought  things  seen  without  (voluntary)  thought. 

In  eloquence,  the  great  triumphs  of  the  art  are,  when 
the  orator  is  lifted  above  himself;  when  consciously  he 
makes  himself  the  mere  tongue  of  the  occasion  and  the 
hour,  and  says  what  cannot  but  be  said.  Hence  the 
term  abandonment,  to  describe  the  self-surrender  of  the 
orator.  Not  his  will,  but  the  principle  on  which  lie  is 
horsed,  the  great  connection  and  crisis  of  events,  thunder 
in  the  ear  of  t  he  crowd. 

In  poetry,  where  every  word  is  free,  every  word  is 


ART.  47 

necessary.  Good  poetry  could  not  have  been  otherwise 
written  than  it  is.  The  first  time  you  hear  it,  it  sounds 
rather  as  if  copied  out  of  some  invisible  tablet  in  the 
Eternal  mind,  than  as  if  arbitrarily  composed  by  the 
poet.  The  feeling  of  all  great  poets  has  accorded  wit.li 
this.  They  found  the  verse,  not  made  it.  The  muse 
brought  it  to  them. 

In  sculpture,  did  ever  anybody  call  the  Apollo  a  fancy 
piece  ?  Or  say  of  the  Laocoon  how  it  might  be  made  dif 
ferent  ?  A  masterpiece  of  art  has  in  the  mind  a  fixed 
place  in  the  chain  of  being,  as  much  as  a  plant  or  a 
crystal. 

The  whole  language  of  men,  especially  of  artists,  in 
reference  to  this  subject,  points  at  the  belief  that  every 
work  of  art,  in  proportion  to  its  excellence,  partakes  of 
the  precision  of  fate  :  no  room  was  there  for  choice,  no 
play  for  fancy;  for  in  the  moment,  or  in  the  successive 
moments,  when  that  form  was  seen,  the  iron  lids  of  Rea 
son  were  unclosed,  which  ordinarily  are  heavy  with  slum 
ber.  The  individual  mind  became  for  the  moment  the 
vent  of  the  mind  of  humanity. 

There  is  but  one  licason.  The  mind  that  made  the 
world  is  not  one  mind,  but  the  mind.  Every  man  is  an 
inlet  to  the  same,  and  to  all  of  the  same.  And  every  work 
of  art  is  a  more  or  less  pure  manifestation  of  the  same. 
Therefore  we  arrive  at  this  conclusion,  which  I  offer  as  a 
confirmation  of  the  whole  view,  that  the  delight  which  a 
work  of  art  affords,  seems  to  arise  from  our  recognizing 
in  it  the  mind  that  formed  Nature,  again  in  active  op 
eration. 

It  differs  from  the  works  of  Nature  in  this,  that  they 


48 


ART. 


are  organically  reproductive.  This  is  not;  but  spirit 
ually  it  is  prolific  by  its  powerful  action  on  the  intel 
lects  of  men. 

Hence  it  follows  that  a  study  of  admirable  works  of 
art  sharpens  our  perceptions  of  the  beauty  of  Nature  ; 
that  a  certain  analogy  reigns  throughout  the  wonders  of 
both ;  that  the  contemplation  of  a  work  of  great  art 
draws  us  into  a  state  of  mind  which  may  be  called  relig 
ious.  It  conspires  with  all  exalted  sentiments. 

Proceeding  from  absolute  mind,  whose  nature  is  good 
ness  as  much  as  truth,  the  great  works  are  always  at 
tuned  to  moral  nature.  If  the  earth  and  sea  conspire 
with  jirtue  more  than  vice, — so  do  the  masterpieces  of 
art.  The  galleries  of  ancient  sculpture  in  Naples  and 
Home  strike  no  deeper  conviction  into  the  mind  than  the 
contrast  of  the  purity,  the  severity,  expressed  in  these 
fine  old  heads,  with  the  frivolity  and  grossness  of  the 
mob  that  exhibits  and  the  mob  that  gazes  at  them.  These 
arc  the  countenances  of  the  first-born,  —  the  face  of  man 
in  the  morning  of  the  world.  No  mark  is  on  these  lofty 
features,  of  sloth,  or  luxury,  or  meanness,  and  they  sur 
prise  you  with  a  moral  admonition,  as  they  speak  of  noth 
ing  around  you,  but  remind  you  of  the  fragrant  thoughts 
and  the  purest  resolutions  of  your  youth. 

Herein  is  the  explanation  of  the  analogies  which  exist 
in  all  the  arts.  They  are  the  reappearance  of  que-Jiiiud, 
working  in  many  materials  to  many  temporary  ends. 
Raphael  paints  wisdom ;  Handel  sings  it,  Phidias  carves 
it,  Shakspcare  writes  it,  Wren  builds  it,  Columbus  sails 
it,  Luther  preaches  it,  Washington  arms  it,  Watt  mech 
anizes  it.  Painting  was  called  "silent  poetry";  and 


AllT.  49 

poetry,  Cf  speaking  painting."  The  laws  of  each  art  are 
convertible  into  the  laws  of  every  other. 

Herein  we  have  an  explanation  of  the  necessity  that 
reigns  in  all  the  kingdom  of  Art. 

Arising  out  of  eternal  lleason,  one  and  perfect,  what 
ever  is  beautiful  rests  on  the  foundation  of  the  necessary. 
Nothing  is  arbitrary,  nothing  is  insulated  in  beauty.  It 
depends  forever  on  the  necessary  and  the  useful.  The 
plumage  of  the  bird,  the  mimic  plumage  of  the  insect, 
has  a  reason  for  its  rich  colors  in  the  constitution  of  the 
animal.  Fitness  is  so  inseparable  an  accompaniment  of 
beauty,  that  it  has  been  taken  for  it.  The  most  perfect 
form  to  answer  an  end  is  so  far  beautiful.  We  feel,  in 
seeing  a  noble  building,  which  rhymes  well,  as  we  do  in 
hearing  a  perfect  song,  that  it  is  spiritually  organic ;  that 
is,  had  a  necessity,  in  nature,  for  being,  was  one  of  the 
possible  forms  in  the  Divine  mind,  and  is  now  only  dis 
covered  and  executed  by  the  artist,  not  arbitrarily  com 
posed  by  him. 

And  so  every  genuine  work  of  art  has  as  much  reason 
for  being  as  the  earth  and  the  sun.  The  gayest  charm 
of  beauty  has  a  root  in  the  constitution  of  things.  The 
Iliad  of  Homer,  the  songs  of  David,  the  odes  of  Pindar, 
the  tragedies  of  ^Eschylus,  the  Doric  temples,  the  Gothic 
cathedrals,  the  plays  of  Shakspeare,  all  and  each  were 
made  not  for  sport,  but  in  grave  earnest,  in  tears  and 
smiles  of  suffering  and  loving  men. 

Viewed  from  this  point,  the  history  of  Art  becomes 
intelligible,  and,  moreover,  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
studies.  We  see  how  each  work  of  art  sprang  irresistibly 
from  necessity,  and,  moreover,  took  its  form  from  the 

3  D 


50  ART. 

broad  hint  of  Nature.  Beautiful  in  this  wise  is  the  obvi 
ous  origin  of  all  the  known  orders  of  architecture ;  namely, 
that  they  were  the  idealizing  of  the  primitive  abodes  of 
each  people.  There  was  no  wilfulness  in  the  savages  in 
this  perpetuating  of  their  first  rude  abodes.  The  first 
form  in  which  they  built  a  house  would  be  the  first  form 
of  their  public  and  religious  edifice  also.  This  form  be 
comes  immediately  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  their  children, 
and,  as  more  traditions  cluster  round  it,  is  imitated  with 
more  splendor  in  each  succeeding  generation. 

In  like  manner,  it  has  been  remarked  by  Goethe  that 
the  granite  breaks  into  parallelepipeds,  which  broken  in 
two,  one  part  would  be  an  obelisk ;  that  in  Upper  Egypt 
the  inhabitants  would  naturally  mark  a  memorable  spot  by 
setting  up  so  conspicuous  a  stone.  Again,  he  suggested, 
we  may  see  in  any  stone  wall,  on  a  fragment  of  rock,  the 
projecting  veins  of  harder  stone,  which  have  resisted  the 
action  of  frost  and  water  which  has  decomposed  the  rest. 
This  appearance  certainly  gave  the  hint  of  the  hieroglyph 
ics  inscribed  on  their  obelisk.  The  amphitheatre  of  the 
old  Romans,  —  any  one  may  see  its  origin  who  looks  at 
the  crowd  running  together  to  see  any  light,  sickness,  or 
odd  appearance  in  the  street.  The  first  comers  gather 
round  in  a  circle  ;  those  behind  stand  on  tiptoe  ;  and  far 
ther  back  they  climb  on  fences  or  window-sills,  and  so 
make  a  cup  of  which  the  object  of  attention  occupies  the 
hollow  area.  The  architect  put  benches  in  this,  and  en 
closed  the  cup  with  a  wall,  —  and,  behold  a  coliseum  ! 

It  would  be  easy  to  show  of  many  fine  things  in  the 
world,  —  in  the  customs  of  nations,  the  etiquette  of 
courts,  the  constitution  of  governments, — the  origin  in 


ART.  51 

quite  simple  local  necessities.  Heraldry,  for  example, 
and  the  ceremonies  of  a  coronation,  are  a  dignified  repeti 
tion  of  the  occurrences  that  might  befall  a  dragoon  and 
his  footboy.  The  College  of  Cardinals  were  originally 
the  parish  priests  of  Rome.  The  leaning  towers  origi 
nated  from  the  civil  discords  which  induced  every  lord  to 
build  a  tower.  Then  it  became  a  point  of  family  pride, 
—  and  for  more  pride  the  novelty  of  a  leaning  tower  was 
built. 

This  strict  dependence  of  Art  upon  material  and  ideal 
Nature,  this  adamantine  necessity  which  underlies  it,  has 
made  all  its  past,  and  may  foreshow  its  future  history. 
It  never  was  in  the  power  of  any  man,  or  any  commu 
nity,  to  call  the  arts  into  being.  They  come  to  serve  his 
actual  wants,  never  to  please  his  fancy.  These  arts  have 
their  origin  always  in  some  enthusiasm,  as  love,  patriot 
ism,  or  religion.  Who  carved  marble  ?  The  believing 
man,  who  wished  to  symbolize  their  gods  to  the  waiting 
Greeks. 

The  Gothic  cathedrals  were  built  when  the  buikfor  and 
the  priest  and  the  people  were  overpowered  by  their 
faith.  Love  and  fear  laid  every  stone.  The  Madonnas 
of  Raphael  and  Titian  were  made  to  be  worshipped. 
Tragedy  was  instituted  for  the  like  purpose,  and  the 
miracles  of  music  :  all  sprang  out  of  some  genuine  enthu 
siasm,  and  never  out  of  dilettanteism  and  holidays.  Now 
they  languish,  because  their  purpose  is  merely  exhibition. 
Who  cares,  who  knows  what  works  of  art  our  govern 
ment  have  ordered  to  be  made  for  the  Capitol?  They 
are  a  mere  flourish  to  please  the  eye  of  persons  who  have 
associations  with  books  and  galleries.  But  in  Greece, 


52  ART. 

the  Demos  of  Athens  divided  into  political  factions  upon 
the  merits  of  Phidias. 

In  this  country,  at  this  time,  other  interests  than  re 
ligion  and  patriotism  are  predominant,,  and  the  arts,  the 
daughters  of  enthusiasm,  do  not  flourish.  The  genuine 
offspring  of  our  ruling  passions  we  behold.  Popular 
institutions,  the  school,  the  reading-room,  the  telegraph, 
the  post-office,  the  exchange,  the  insurance-company,  and 
the  immense  harvest  of  economical  inventions,  are  the 
fruit  of  the  equality  and  the  boundless  liberty  of  lucrative 
callings.  These  are  superficial  wants  ;  and  their  fruits 
are  these  superficial  institutions.  But  as  far  as  they 
accelerate  the  end  of  political  freedom  and  national  edu 
cation,  they  are  preparing  the  soil  of  man  for  fairer  flow 
ers  and  fruits  in  another  age.  For  beauty,  truth,  and 
goodness  are  not  obsolete;  they  spring  eternal  in  the 
breast  of  man ;  they  are  as  indigenous  in  Massachusetts 
as  in  Tuscany  or  the  Isles  of  Greece.  And  that  Eternal 
Spirit,  whose  triple  face  they  are,  moulds  from  them  for 
ever,  for  his  mortal  child,  images  to  remind  him  of  the 
Infinite  and  Fair. 


ELOQUENCE 


ELOQUENCE. 


IT  is  the  doctrine  of  the  popular  music-masters,  that 
whoever  can  speak  can  sing.  So,  probably,  every  man  is 
eloquent  once  in  his  life.  Our  temperaments  differ  in 
capacity  of  heat,  or,  we  boil  at  different  degrees.  One 
man  is  brought  to  the  boiling-point  by  the  excitement  of 
conversation  m  the  parlor.  The  waters,  of  course,  are 
not  very  deep.  He  has  a  two-inch  enthusiasm,  a  patty 
pan  ebullition.  Another  requires  the  additional  caloric 
of  a  multitude,  and  a  public  debate ;  a  third  needs  an 
antagonist,  or  a  hot  indignation  ;  a  fourth  needs  a  revolu 
tion  ;  and  a  fifth,  nothing  less  than  the  grandeur  of  abso 
lute  ideas,  the  splendors  and  shades  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 

But  because  every  man  is  an  orator,  how  long  soever 
he  may  have  been  a  mute,  an  assembly  of  men  is  so  much 
more  susceptible.  The  eloquence  of  one  stimulates  all 
the  rest,  some  up  to  the  speaking-point,  and  all  others  to 
a  degree  that  makes  them  good  receivers  and  conductors, 
and  they  avenge  themselves  for  their  enforced  silence  by 
increased  loquacity  on  their  return  to  the  fireside. 

The  plight  of  these  phlegmatic  brains  is  better  than 
that  of  those  who  prematurely  boil,  and  who  impatiently 
break  silence  before  their  time.  Our  county  conventions 
often  exhibit  a  small-pot-soon-hot  style  of  eloquence. 


56  ELOQUENCE. 

We  arc  too  much  reminded  of  a  mescal  experiment 
where  a  series  of  patients  are  taking  nitrous-oxide  gas. 
Each  patient,  in  turn,  exhibits  similar  symptoms,  —  red 
ness  in  the  face,  volubility,  violent  gesticulation,  deliri 
ous  attitudes,  occasional  stamping,  an  alarming  loss  of 
perception  of  the  passage  of  time,  a  selfish  enjoyment  of 
liis  sensations,  and  loss  of  perception  of  the  sufferings 
of  the  audience. 

Plato  says,  that  the  punishment  which  the  wise  suffer, 
who  refuse  to  take  part  in  the  government,  is,  to  live 
under  the  government  of  worse  men ;  and  the  like  regret 
is  suggested  to  all  the  auditors,  as  the  penalty  of  abstain 
ing  to  speak,  —  that  they  shall  hear  worse  orators  than 
themselves. 

But  this  lust  to  speak  marks  the  universal  feeling  of 
the  energy  of  the  engine,  and  the  curiosity  men  feel  to 
touch  the  springs.  Of  all  the  musical  instruments  on 
which  men  play,  a  popular  assembly  is  that  which  has 
the  largest  compass  and  variety,  and  out  of  which,  by 
genius  and  study,  the  most  wonderful  effects  can  be 
drawn.  An  audience  is  not  a  simple  addition  of  the 
individuals  that  compose  it.  Their  sympathy  gives  them 
a  certain  social  organism,  which  fills  each  member,  in  his 
own  degree,  and  most  of  all  the  orator,  as  a  jar  in  a  bat 
tery  is  charged  with  the  whole  electricity  of  the  battery. 
No  one  can  survey  the  face  of  an  excited  assembly,  with 
out  being  apprised  of  new  opportunity  for  painting  in 
fire  human  thought,  and  being  agitated  to  agitate.  How 
many  orators  sit  mute  there  below  !  They  come  to  get 
justice  done  to  that  ear  and  intuition  which  no  Chatham 
and  no  Demosthenes  has  begun  to  satisfy. 


ELOQUENCE.  57 

The  Welsh  Triads  say,  "  Many  are  the  friends  of  the 
golden  tongue."  Who  can  wonder  at  the  attractiveness 
of  Parliament,  or  of  Congress,  or  the  bar,  for  our  ambi 
tious  young  men,  when  the  highest  bribes  of  society  are 
at  the  feet  of  the  successful  orator  ?  He  has  his  audience 
at  his  devotion.  All  other  fames  must  hush  before  his. 
He  is  the  true  potentate  ;  for  they  are  not  kings  who  sit 
on  thrones,  but  they  who  know  how  to  govern.  The 
definitions  of  eloquence  describe  its  attraction  for  young 
men.  Antiphon  the  Ilhamnusian,  one  of  Plutarch's  ten 
orators,  advertised  in  Athens,  "  that  he  would  cure  dis 
tempers  of  the  mind  with  words."  No  man  has  a  pros 
perity  so  high  or  firm  but  two  or  three  words  can 
dishearten  it.  There  is  no  calamity  which  right  words 
will  not  begin  to  redress.  Isocrates  described  his  art  as 
"the  power  of  magnifying  what  was  small  and  diminish 
ing  what  was  great,"  —  an  acute  but  partial  definition. 
Among  the  Spartans,  the  art  assumed  a  Spartan  shape, 
namely,  of  the  sharpest  weapon.  Socrates  says  :  "  If 
any  one  wishes  to  converse  with  the  meanest  of  the 
Lacedaemonians,  he  will  at  first  find  him  despicable  in 
conversation ;  but,  when  a  proper  opportunity  offers,  this 
same  person,  like  a  skilful  jaculator,  will  hurl  a  sentence 
worthy  of  attention,  short  and  contorted,  so  that  he  who 
converses  with  him  will  appear  to  be  in  no  respect  su 
perior  to  a  boy."  Plato's  definition  of  rhetoric  is,  "  the 
art  of  ruling  the  minds  of  men."  The  Koran  says,  "A 
mountain  may  change  its  place,  but  a  man  will  not  change 
his  disposition  "  ;  yet  the  end  of  eloquence  is,  —  is  it  not  ? 
—  to  alter  in  a  pair  of  hours,  perhaps  in  a  half-hour's  dis 
course,  the  convictions  and  habits  of  years.  Young  men, 
3* 


58  ELOQUENCE. 

too,  are  eager  to  enjoy  this  sense  of  added  power  and 
enlarged  sympathetic  existence.  The  orator  sees  himself 
the  organ  of  a  multitude,  and  concentrating  their  valors 
and  powers : 

"  But  now  the  blood  of  twenty  thousand  men 
Blushed  in  my  face." 

That  which  he  wishes,  that  which  eloquence  ought  to 
reach,  is,  not  a  particular  skill  in  telling  a  story,  or  neatly 
summing  up  evidence,  or  arguing  logically,  or  dexter 
ously  addressing  the  prejudice  of  the  company,  — no,  but 
a  taking  sovereign  possession  of  the  audience.  Him  we 
call  an  artist,  who  shall  play  on  an  assembly  of  men  as 
a  master  on  the  keys  of  the  piano,  —  who,  seeing  the 
people  furious,  shall  soften  and  compose  them,  shall  draw 
them,  when  he  will,  to  laughter  and  to  tears.  Bring  him 
to  his  audience,  and,  be  they  who  they  may,  —  coarse  or 
refined,  pleased  or  displeased,  sulky  or  savage,  with  their 
opinions  in  the  keeping  of  a  confessor,  or  with  their 
opinions  in  their  bank-safes,  —  he  will  have  them  pleased 
and  humored  as  he  chooses ;  and  they  shall  carry  and 
execute  that  which  he  bids  them. 

This  is  that  despotism  which  poets  have  celebrated  in 
the  "Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  whose  music  drew  like  the 
power  of  gravitation, —  drew  soldiers  and  priests,  traders 
and  feasters,  women  and  boys,  rats  and  mice  :  or  that  of 
the  minstrel  of  Meudon,  who  made  the  pall-bearers  dance 
around  the  bier.  This  is  a  power  of  many  degrees,  and 
requiring  in  the  orator  a  great  range  of  faculty  and  ex 
perience,  requiring  a  large  composite  man,  such  as  Na 
ture  rarely  organizes;  so  that,  in  our  experience,  we  are 


ELOQUENCE.  59 

forced  to  gather  up  the  figure  in  fragments,  here  one 
talent,  and  there  another. 

The  audience  is  a  constant  meter  of  the  orator.  There 
are  many  audiences  in  every  public  assembly,  each  one 
of  which  rules  in  turn.  If  anything  comic  and  coarse  is 
spoken,  you  shall  see  the  emergence  of  the  boys  and 
rowdies,  so  loud  and  vivacious  that  you  might  think  the 
house  was  filled  with  them.  If  new  topics  are  started, 
graver  and  higher,  these  roisters  recede ;  a  more  chaste 
and  wise  attention  takes  place.  You  would  think  the 
boys  slept,  and  that  the  men  have  any  degree  of  pro 
foundness.  If  the  speaker  utter  a  noble  sentiment,  the 
attention  deepens,  a  new  and  highest  audience  now  lis 
tens,  and  the  audiences  of  the  fun  and  of  facts  and  of  the 
understanding  are  all  silenced  and  awed.  There  is  also 
something  excellent  in  every  audience,  —  the  capacity  of 
virtue.  They  are  ready  to  be  beatified.  They  know  so 
much  more  than  the  orator,  —  and  are  so  just!  There 
is  a  tablet  there  for  every  line  he  can  inscribe,  though  he 
should  mount  to  the  highest  levels.  Humble  persons  are 
conscious  of  new  illumination ;  narrow  brows  expand 
with  enlarged  affections ;  —  delicate  spirits,  long  unknown 
to  themselves,  masked  and  muffled  in  coarsest  fortunes, 
who  now  hear  their  own  native  language  for  the  first 
time,  and  leap  to  hear  it.  But  all  these  several  audi 
ences,  each  above  each,  which  successively  appear  to 
greet  the  variety  of  style  and  topic,  are  really  com 
posed  out  of  the  same  persons ;  nay,  sometimes  the 
same  individual  will  take  active  part  in  them  all,  in 
turn. 

This  range  of  many  powers  in  the  consummate  speaker, 


60  ELOQUENCE. 

and  of  many  audiences  in  one  assembly,  leads  us  to  con 
sider  the  successive  stages  of  oratory. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  lowest  of  the  qualities  of  an  orator, 
but  it  is,  on  so  many  occasions,  of  chief  importance,  — 
a  certain  robust  and  radiant  physical  health ;  or,  —  shall 
I  say  ?  —  great  volumes  of  animal  heat.  When  each 
auditor  feels  himself  to  make  too  large  a  part  of  the 
assembly,  and  shudders  with  cold  at  the  thinness  of  the 
morning  audience,  and  with  fear  lest  all  will  heavily  fail 
through  one  bad  speech,  mere  energy  and  mellowness 
are  then  inestimable.  Wisdom  and  learning  would  be 
harsh  and  unwelcome,  compared  with  a  substantial  cor 
dial  man,  made  of  milk,  as  we  say,  who  is  a  house- 
warmer,  with  his  obvious  honesty  and  good  meaning,  and 
a  hue-and-cry  style  of  harangue,  which  inundates  the 
assembly  with  a  flood  of  animal  spirits,  and  makes  all  safe 
and  secure,  so  that  any  and  every  sort  of  good  speaking 
becomes  at  once  practicable.  I  do  not  rate  this  animal 
eloquence  very  highly;  and  yet,  as  we  must  be  fed  and 
warmed  before  we  can  do  any  work  well,  —  even  the 
best,  —  so  is  this  semi-animal  exuberance,  like  a  good 
stove,  of  the  first  necessity  in  a  cold  house. 

Climate  has  much  to  do  with  it,  —  climate  and  race. 
Sot  a  Nevv-Englander  to  describe  any  accident  which 
happened  in  his  presence.  What  hesitation  and  reserve 
in  his  narrative  !  He  tells  with  difficulty  some  particu 
lars,  and  gets  as  fast  as  he  can  to  the  result,  and,  though 
he  cannot  describe,  hopes  to  suggest  the  whole  scene. 
Now  listen  to  a  poor  Irishwoman  recounting  some  expe 
rience  of  hers.  Her  speech  flows  like  a  river,  —  so 
unconsidcrcd,  so  humorous,  so  pathetic,  such  justice 


ELOQUENCE.  61 

done  to  all  the  parts  !  It  is  a  true  transubstantiation,  — 
the  fact  converted  into  speech,  all  warm  and  colored  and 
alive,  as  it  fell  out.  Our  Southern  people  are  almost  all 
speakers,  and  have  every  advantage  over  the  New  Eng 
land  people,  whose  climate  is  so  cold  that,  't  is  said,  we 
do  not  like  to  open  our  mouths  very  wide.  But  neither 
can  the  Southerner  in  the  United  States,  nor  the  Irish, 
compare  with  the  lively  inhabitant  of  the  south  of  Eu 
rope.  The  traveller  in  Sicily  needs  no  gayer  melodra 
matic  exhibition  than  the  table  d'hote  of  his  inn  will 
afford  him  in  the  conversation  of  the  joyous  guests. 
They  mimic  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  person  they 
describe ;  they  crow,  squeal,  hiss,  cackle,  bark,  and 
scream  like  mad,  and,  were  it  only  by  the  physical 
strength  exerted  in  telling  the  story,  keep  the  table  in 
unbounded  excitement.  But  in  every  constitution  some 
large  degree  of  animal  vigor  is  necessary  as  material 
foundation  for  the  higher  qualities  of  the  art. 

But  eloquence  must  be  attractive,  or  it  is  none.  The 
virtue  of  books  is,  to  be  readable,  and  of  orators,  to  be 
interesting ;  and  this  is  a  gift  of  Nature ;  as  Demos 
thenes,  the  most  laborious  student  in  that  kind,  signi 
fied  his  sense  of  this  necessity  when  he  wrote,  "  Good 
Fortune,"  as  his  motto  on  his  shield.  As  we  know, 
the  power  of  discourse  of  certain  individuals  amounts 
to  fascination,  though  it  may  have  no  lasting  effect. 
Some  portion  of  this  sugar  must  intermingle.  The 
right  eloquence  needs  no  bell  to  call  the  people  to 
gether,  and  no  constable  to  keep  them.  It  draws  the 
children  from  their  play,  the  old  from  their  arm-chairs, 
the  invalid  from  his  warm  chamber :  it  holds  the  hearer 


G2  ELOQUENCE. 

fast ;  steals  away  Iris  feet,  that  he  shall  not  depart,  —  his 
memory,  that  he  shall  not  remember  the  most  pressing 
affairs,  —  his  belief,  that  he  shall  not  admit  any  opposing 
considerations.  The  pictures  we  have  of  it  in  semi-bar 
barous  ages,  when  it  has  some  advantages  in  the  simpler 
habit  of  the  people,  show  what  it  aims  at.  It  is  said  that 
the  Khans,  or  story-tellers,  in  Ispahan  and  other  cities  of 
the  East,  attain  a  controlling  power  over  their  audience, 
keeping  them  for  many  hours  attentive  to  the  most  fanci 
ful  and  extravagant  adventures.  The  whole  world  knows 
pretty  well  the  style  of  these  improvisators,  and  how 
fascinating  they  are,  in  our  translations  of  the  "  Arabian 
Nights."  Scheherczade  tells  these  stories  to  save  her 
life,  and  the  delight  of  young  Europe  and  young  America 
in  them  proves  that  she  fairly  earned  it.  And  who  does 
not  remember  in  childhood  some  white  or  black  or  yellow 
Scheherezade,  who,  by  that  talent  of  telling  endless  feats 
of  fairies  and  magicians,  and  kings  and  queens,  was 
more  dear  and  wonderful  to  a  circle  of  children  than 
any  orator  in  England  or  America  is  now  ?  The  more 
indolent  and  imaginative  complexion  of  the  Eastern  na 
tions  makes  them  much,  more  impressible  by  these  appeals 
to  the  fancy. 

These  legends  are  only  exaggerations  of  real  occur 
rences,  and  every  literature  contains  these  high  compli 
ments  to  the  art  of  the  orator  and  the  bard,  from  the 
Hebrew  and  the  Greek  down  to  the  Scottish  Glenkindie, 

who 

"  harpit  a  fish  out  o'  saut-water, 

Or  water  out  of  a  stone, 
Or  milk  out  of  a  maiden's  breast 
AVho  bairn  had  neviT  none." 


ELOQUENCE.  63 

Homer  specially  delighted  in  drawing  the  same  figure. 
For  what  is  the  "  Odyssey  "  but  a  history  of  the  orator, 
in  the  largest  style,  carried  through  a  series  of  adven 
tures  furnishing  brilliant  opportunities  to  his  talent? 
See  with  what  care  and  pleasure  the  poet  brings  him 
on  the  stage.  Helen  is  pointing  out  to  Priam,  from 
a  tower,  the  different  Grecian  chiefs.  "  The  old  man 
asked :  '  Tell  me,  dear  child,  who  is  that  man,  shorter 
by  a  head  than  Agamemnon,  yet  he  looks  broader  in  his 
shoulders  and  breast.  His  arms  lie  on  the  ground,  but 
he,  like  a  leader,  walks  about  the  bands  of  the  men.  He 
seems  to  me  like  a  stately  ram,  who  goes  as  a  master  of 
the  flock.'  Him  answered  Helen,  daughter  of  Jove : 
*  This  is  the  wise  Ulysses,  son  of  Laertes,  who  was 
reared  in  the  state  of  craggy  Ithaca,  knowing  all  wiles 
and  wise  counsels.'  To  her  the  prudent  Antenor  replied 
again  :  '  0  woman,  you  have  spoken  truly.  For  once 
the  wise  Ulysses  came  hither  on  an  embassy,  with  Mene- 
laus,  beloved  by  Mars.  I  received  them,  and  entertained 
them  at  my  house.  I  became  acquainted  with  the  genius 
and  the  prudent  judgments  of  both.  When  they  mixed 
with  the  assembled  Trojans,  and  stood,  the  broad  shoul 
ders  of  Menelaus  rose  above  the  other;  but,  both  sit 
ting,  Ulysses  was  more  majestic.  When  they  conversed, 
and  interweaved  stories  and  opinions  with  all,  Menelaus 
spoke  succinctly,  —  few  but  very  sweet  words,  since  he 
was  not  talkative,  nor  superfluous  in  speech,  and  was  the 
younger.  But  when  the  wise  Ulysses  arose,  and  stood, 
and  looked  down,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and 
neither  moved  his  sceptre  backward  nor  forward,  but  held 
it  still,  like  an  awkward  person,  you  would  say  it  was 


Gl<  ELOQUENCE. 

some  angry  or  foolish  man ;  but  when  he  sent  his  great 
voice  forth  out  of  his  breast,  and  his  words  fell  like  the 
winter  snows,  not  tlion  would  any  mortal  contend  with 
Ulysses  ;  and  we,  beholding,  wondered  not  afterwards  so 
much  at  his  aspect.'  "  *  Thus  he  does  not  fail  to  arm 
Ulysses  at  first  with  this  power  of  overcoming  all  opposi 
tion  by  the  blandishments  of  speech.  Plutarch  tells  us 
that  Thucydides,  when  Archidamus,  king  of  Sparta,  asked 
him  which  was  the  best  wrestler,  —  Pericles  or  he,  —  re 
plied,  "  When  I  throw  him,  he  says  he  was  never  down, 
and  he  persuades  the  very  spectators  to  believe  him." 
Philip  of  Macedon  said  of  Demosthenes,  on  hearing  the 
report  of  one  of  his  orations,  "  Had  I  been  there,  he 
would  have  persuaded  me  to  take  up  arms  against  my 
self";  and  Warren  Hastings  said  of  Burke's  speech  on 
his  impeachment,  "  As  I  listened  to  the  orator,  I  felt  for 
more  than  half  an  hour  as  if  I  were  the  most  culpable 
being  on  earth." 

In  these  examples,  higher  qualities  have  already  en 
tered  ;  but  the  power  of  detaining  the  ear  by  pleasing 
speech,  and  addressing  the  fancy  and  imagination,  often 
exists  without  higher  merits.  Thus  separated,  as  this 
fascination  of  discourse  aims  only  at  amusement,  though 
it  be  decisive  in  its  momentary  effect,  it  is  yet  a  juggle, 
and  of  no  lasting  power.  It  is  heard  like  a  band  of  music 
passing  through  the  streets,  which  converts  all  the  pas 
sengers  into  poets,  but  is  forgotten  as  soon  as  it  has 
turned  the  next  corner ;  and  unless  this  oiled  tongue 
could,  in  Oriental  phrase,  lick  the  sun  and  moon  away,  it 

*  Iliad,  III.  191. 


ELOQUENCE.  G5 

must  take  its  place  with  opium  and  brandy.  I  know  no 
remedy  against  it  but  cotton-wool,  or  the  wax  which 
Ulysses  stuffed  into  the  ears  of  his  sailors  to  pass  the 
Sirens  safely. 

There  are  all  degrees  of  power,  and  the  least  are  inter 
esting,  but  they  must  not  be  confounded.  There  is  the 
glib  tongue  and  cool  self-possession  of  the  salesman  in  a 
large  shop,  which,  as  is  well  known,  overpower  the  pru 
dence  and  resolution  of  housekeepers  of  both  sexes. 
There  is  a  petty  lawyer's  fluency,  which  is  sufficiently 
impressive  to  him  who  is  devoid  of  that  talent,  though  it 
be,  in  so  many  cases,  nothing  more  than  a  facility  of 
expressing  with  accuracy  and  speed  what  everybody 
thinks  and  says  more  slowly,  without  new  information, 
or  precision  of  thought,  —  but  the  same  thing,  neither 
loss  nor  more.  It  requires  no  special  insight  to  edit  one 
of  our  country  newspapers.  Yet  whoever  can  say  off 
currently,  sentence  by  sentence,  matter  neither  better  nor 
worse  than  what  is  there  printed,  will  be  very  impressive 
to  our  easily  pleased  population.  These  talkers  are  of 
that  class  who  prosper,  like  the  celebrated  schoolmaster, 
by  being  only  one  lesson  ahead  of  the  pupil.  Add  a  little 
sarcasm,  and  prompt  allusion  to  passing  occurrences,  and 
you  have  the  mischievous  member  of  Congress.  A  spice 
of  malice,  a  ruffian  touch  in  his  rhetoric,  will  do  him  no 
harm  with  his  audience.  These  accomplishments  are  of 
the  same  kind,  and  only  a  degree  higher  than  the  coaxing 
of  the  auctioneer,  or  the  vituperative  style  well  described 
in  the  street-word  "  jawing."  These  kinds  of  public  and 
private  speaking  have  their  use  and  convenience  to  the 
practitioners ;  but  we  may  say  of  such  collectively,  that 


ELOQUENCE. 

the  habit  of  oratory  is  apt   to  disqualify  them  for  elo-* 
quence. 

One  of  our  statesmen  said,  "  The  curse  of  this  country 
is  eloquent  men."  And  one  cannot  wonder  at  the  un 
easiness  sometimes  manifested  by  trained  statesmen,  with 
large  experience  of  public  affairs,  when  they  observe  the 
disproportionate  advantage  suddenly  given  to  oratory 
over  the  most  solid  and  accumulated  public  service.  In 
a  Senate  or  other  business  committee,  the  solid  result 
depends  on  a  few  men  with  working-talent.  They  know 
how  to  deal  with  the  facts  before  them,  to  put  things 
into  a  practical  shape,  and  they  value  men  only  as  they 
can  forward  the  work.  But  a  new  man  comes  there, 
who  has  no  capacity  for  helping  them  at  all,  is  insignifi 
cant,  and  nobody  in  the  committee,  but  has  a  talent  for 
speaking.  In  the  debate  with  open  doors,  this  precious 
person  makes  a  speech,  which  is  printed,  and  read  all 
over  the  Union,  and  he  at  once  becomes  famous,  and 
takes  the  lead  in  the  public  mind  over  all  these  executive 
men,  who,  of  course,  are  full  of  indignation  to  find  one 
who  has  no  tact  or  skill,  and  knows  he  has  none,  put  over 
them  by  means  of  this  talking-power  which  they  despise. 

Leaving  behind  us  these  pretensions,  better  or  worse, 
to  come  a  little  nearer  to  the  verity,  —  eloquence  is 
attractive  as  an  example  of  the  magic  of  personal  ascend 
ency,  —  a  total  and  resultant  power,  rare,  because  it 
requires  a  rich  coincidence  of  powers,  intellect,  will, 
sympathy,  organs,  and,  over  all,  good  fortune  in  the 
cause.  We  have  a  half-belief  that  the  person  is  possible 
who  can  counterpoise  all  other  persons.  We  believe 
that  there  may  be  a  man  who  is  a  match  for  events,  — 


ELOQUENCE.  67 

one  who  never  found  his  match,  —  against  whom  other 
men  being  dashed  are  broken, —  one  of  inexhaustible 
personal  resources,  who  can  give  you  any  odds  and  beat 
you.  What  we  really  wish  for  is  a  mind  equal  to  any 
exigency.  You  are  safe  in  your  rural  district,  or  in  the 
city,  in  broad  daylight,  amidst  the  police,  and  under  the 
eyes  of  a  hundred  thousand  people.  But  how  is  it  on 
the  Atlantic,  in  a  storm,  —  do  you  understand  how  to 
infuse  your  reason  into  men  disabled  by  terror,  and  to 
bring  yourself  off  safe  then?  — how  among  thieves, 
or  among  an  infuriated  populace,  or  among  cannibals  ? 
Face  to  face  with  a  highwayman  who  has  every  tempta 
tion  and  opportunity  for  violence  and  plunder,  can  you 
bring  yourself  off  safe  by  your  wit,  exercised  through 
speech  ?  —  a  problem  easy  enough  to  Caesar  or  Napo 
leon.  Whenever  a  man  of  that  stamp  arrives,  the  high 
wayman  has  found  a  master.  What  a  difference  between 
men  in  power  of  face !  A  man  succeeds  because  he  lias 
more  power  of  eye  than  another,  and  so  coaxes  or  con 
founds  him.  The  newspapers,  every  week,  report  the 
adventures  of  some  impudent  swindler,  who,  by  steadi 
ness  of  carriage,  duped  those  who  should  have  known 
better.  Yet  any  swindlers  we  have  known  are  novices 
and  bunglers,  as  is  attested  by  their  ill  name.  A  greater 
power  of  face  would  accomplish  anything,  and,  with  the 
rest  of  their  takings,  lake  away  the  bad  name.  A 
greater  power  of  carrying  the  thing  loftily,  and  with 
perfect  assurance,  would  confound  merchant,  banker, 
judge,  men  of  influence  and  power,  —  poet  and  presi 
dent,  —  and  might  head  any  party,  unseat  any  sovereign, 
and  abrogate  any  constitution  in  Europe  and  America. 


68  ELOQUENCE. 

It  was  said  that  a  man  lias  at  one  step  attained  vast 
power,  who  lias  renounced  his  moral  sentiment,  and 
settled  it  with  himself  that  he  will  no  longer  stick  at 
anything.  It  was  said  of  Sir  William  Pepperel,  one  of 
the  worthies  of  New  England,  that,  "  put  him  where  you 
might,  he  commanded,  and  saw  what  he  willed  come 
to  pass."  Julius  Caesar  said  to  Metellus,  when  that  trib 
une  interfered  to  hinder  him  from  entering  the  Roman 
treasury,  "  Young  man,  it  is  easier  for  me  to  put  you  to 
death  than  to  say  that  I  will " ;  and  the  youth  yielded. 
In  earlier  days,  he  was  taken  by  pirates.  What  then  ? 
He  threw  himself  into  their  ship,  established  the  most 
extraordinary  intimacies,  told  them  stories,  declaimed  to 
them ;  if  they  did  not  applaud  his  speeches,  he  threat 
ened  them  with  hanging, —which  he  performed  after 
wards,  —  and,  in  a  short  time,  was  master  of  all  on 
board.  A  man  this  is  who  cannot  be  disconcerted,  and 
so  can  never  play  his  last  card,  but  has  a  reserve  of 
power  when  he  has  hit  his  mark.  With  a  serene  face, 
he  subverts  a  kingdom.  What  is  told  of  him  is  miracu 
lous  ;  it  affects  men  so.  The  confidence  of  men  in  him 
is  lavish,  and  he  changes  the  face  of  the  world,  and  his 
tories,  poems,  and  new  philosophies  arise  to  account  for 
him.  A  supreme  commander  over  all  his  passions  and 
affections  ;  but  the  secret  of  his  ruling  is  higher  than 
that.  It  is  the  power  of  Nature  running  without  imped 
iment  from  the  brain  and  will  into  the  hands.  Men  and 
women  are  his  game.  Where  they  are,  he  cannot  be 
without  resource.  "  Whoso  can  speak  well,"  said  Lu 
ther,  "is  a  man."  It  was  men  of  this  stamp  that  the 
Grecian  States  used  to  ask  of  Sparta  for  generals.  They 


ELOQUENCE.  69 

did  not  send  to  Lacedaemon  for  troops,  but  they  said, 
"  Send  us  a  commander"  ;  and  Pausanias,  or  Gylippus, 
or  Brasidas,  or  Agis,  was  despatched  by  the  Ephors. 

It  is  easy  to  illustrate  this  overpowering  personality 
by  these  examples  of  soldiers  and  kings ;  but  there  are 
men  of  the  most  peaceful  way  of  life,  and  peaceful  prin 
ciple,  who  are  felt,  wherever  they  go,  as  sensibly  as  a 
July  sun  or  a  December  frost,  —  men  who,  if  they  speak, 
are  heard,  though  they  speak  in  a  whisper,  —  who,  when 
they  act,  act  effectually,  and  what  they  do  is  imitated ; 
and  these  examples  may  be  found  on  very  humble  plat 
forms,  as  well  as  on  high  ones. 

In  old  countries,  a  high  money -value  is  set  on  the  ser 
vices  of  men  who  have  achieved  a  personal  distinction. 
He  who  has  points  to  carry  must  hire,  not  a  skilful  at 
torney,  but  a  commanding  person.  A  barrister  in  Eng 
land  is  reputed  to  have  made  thirty  or  forty  thousand 
pounds  per  annum  in  representing  the  claims  of  railroad 
companies  before  committees  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
His  clients  pay  not  so  much  for  legal  as  for  manly  accom 
plishments,  —  for  courage,  conduct,  and  a  commanding 
social  position,  which  enable  him  to  make  their  claims 
heard  and  respected. 

I  know  very  well,  that,  among  our  cool  and  calculat 
ing  people,  where  every  man  mounts  guard  over  him 
self,  where  heats  and  panics  and  abandonments  are  quite 
out  of  the  system,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  scepticism  as 
to  extraordinary  influence.  To  talk  of  an  overpowering 
mind  rouses  the  same  jealousy  and  defiance  which  one 
may  observe  round  a  table  where  anybody  is  recounting 
the  marvellous  anecdotes  of  mesmerism.  Each  auditor 


70  ELOQUENCE. 

puts  a  final  stroke  to  the  discourse  by  exclaiming,  "  Can 
lie  mesmerize  me  ?  "  So  each  man  inquires  if  any  orator 
can  change  his  convictions. 

But  docs  any  one  suppose  himself  to  be  quite  impreg 
nable  ?  Does  he  think  that  not  possibly  a  man  may  come 
to  him  who  shall  persuade  him  out  of  his  most  settled 
determination  ?  —  for  example,  good  sedate  citizen  as  he 
is,  to  make  a  fanatic  of  him,  —  or,  if  he  is  penurious,  to 
squander  money  for  some  purpose  he  now  least  thinks  of, 

or,  if  he  is  a  prudent,  industrious  person,  to  forsake 

his  work,  and  give  days  and  weeks  to  a  new  interest? 
No,  he  defies  any  one,  every  one.  Ah  !  he  is  thinking  of 
resistance,  and  of  a  different  turn  from  his  own.  But 
what  if  one  should  come  of  the  same  turn  of  mind  as  his 
own,  and  who  sees  much  farther  on  his  own  way  than  lie  ? 
A  man  who  has  tastes  like  mine,  but  in  greater  power, 
will  ride  me  any  day,  and  make  me  love  my  ruler. 

Thus  it  is  not  powers  of  speech  that  we  primarily  con 
sider  under  this  word  eloquence,  but  the  power  that, 
being  present,  gives  them  their  perfection,  and,  being 
absent,  leaves  them  a  merely  superficial  value.  Elo 
quence  is  the  appropriate  organ  of  the  highest  personal 
energy.  Personal  ascendency  may  exist  with  or  without 
adequate  talent  for  its  expression.  It  is  as  surely  felt  as 
a  mountain  or  a  planet ;  but  when  it  is  weaponed  with  a 
power  of  speech,  it  seems  first  to  become  truly  human, 
works  actively  in  all  directions,  and  supplies  the  imagi 
nation  with  fine  materials. 

This  circumstance  enters  into  every  consideration  of 
the  power  of  orators,  and  is  the  key  to  all  their  effects. 
In  the  assembly,  you  shall  find  the  orator  and  the  audi- 


ELOQUENCE.  71 

ence  in  perpetual  balance ;  and  the  predominance  of 
either  is  indicated  by  the  choice  of  topic.  If  the  talents 
for  speaking  exist,  but  not  the  strong  personality,  then 
there  are  good  speakers  who  perfectly  receive  and  ex 
press  the  will  of  the  audience,  and  the  commonest  pop 
ulace  is  flattered  by  hearing  its  low  mind  returned  to  it- 
wit  h  every  ornament  which  happy  talent  can  add.  But 
if  there  be  personality  in  the  orator,  the  face  of  things 
changes.  The  audience  is  thrown  into  the  attitude  of 
pupil,  follows  like  a  child  its  preceptor,  and  hears  what 
he  has  to  say.  It  is  as  if,  amidst  the  king's  council  at 
Madrid,  Ximeues  urged  that  an  advantage  might  be 
gained  of  France,  and  Mendoza  that  Flanders  might  be 
kept  down,  and  Columbus,  being  introduced,  was  inter 
rogated  whether  his  geographical  knowledge  could  aid 
the  cabinet,  and  he  can  say  nothing  to  one  party  or  to 
the  other,  but  he  can  show  how  all  Europe  can  be  dimin 
ished  and  reduced  under  the  king,  by  annexing  to  Spain 
a  continent  as  large  as  six  or  seven  Europes. 

This  balance  between  the  orator  and  the  audience  is 
expressed  in  what  is  called  the  pertinence  of  the  speaker. 
There  is  always  a  rivalry  between  the  orator  and  the 
occasion,  between  the  demands  of  the  hour  and  the  pre 
possession  of  the  individual.  The  emergency  which  has 
convened  the  meeting  is  usually  of  more  importance  than 
anything  the  debaters  have  in  their  minds,  and  therefore 
becomes  imperative  to  them.  But  if  one  of  them  have 
anything  of  commanding  necessity  in  his  heart,  how 
speedily  he  will  find  vent  for  it,  and  with  the  applause  of 
the  assembly  !  This  balance  is  observed  in  the  privatest 
intercourse.  Poor  Tom  never  knew  the  time  when  the 


72  ELOQUENCE. 

present  occurrence  was  so  trivial  that,  he  could  tell  what 
was  passing  in  his  mind  without  being  checked  for  un 
seasonable  speech  ;  but  let  Bacon  speak,  and  wise  men 
would  rather  listen,  though  the  revolution  of  kingdoms 
was  on  foot.  I  have  heard  it  reported  of  an  eloquent 
preacher,  whose  voice  is  not  yet  forgotten  in  this  city, 
that,  on  occasions  of  death  or  tragic  disaster,  which  over 
spread  the  congregation  with  gloom,  he  ascended  the 
pulpit  with  more  than  his  usual  alacrity,  and,  turning 
to  his  favorite  lessons  of  devout  and  jubilant  thankful- 
nesSj  —  «  Let  us  praise  the  Lord,"  —  carried  audience, 
mourners,  and  mourning  along  with  him,  and  swept  away 
all  the  impertinence  of  private  sorrow  with  his  hosannas 
and  songs  of  praise.  Pepys  says  of  Lord  Clarendon 
(with  whom  "  he  is  mad  in  love  "),  on  his  return  from 
a  conference,  "I  did  never  observe  how  much  easier  a 
man  do  speak  when  he  knows  all  the  company  to  be  be 
low  him,  than  in  him;  for,  though  he  spoke  indeed 
excellent  well,  yet  his  manner  and  freedom  of  doing  it, 
as  if  he  played  with  it,  and  was  informing  only  all  the 
rest  of  the  company,  was  mighty  pretty."* 

This  rivalry  between  the  orator  and  the  occasion  is 
inevitable,  and  the  occasion  always  yields  to  the  emi 
nence  of  the  speaker;  for  a  great  man  is  the  greatest 
of  occasions.  Of  course,  the  interest  of  the  audience 
and  of  the  orator  conspire.  It  is  well  with  them  only 
when  his  influence  is  complete  ;  then  only  they  are  well 
pleased.  Especially,  he  consults  his  power  by  making 
instead  of  taking  his  theme.  If  he  should  attempt  to 

*  Diary,  I.  169. 


ELOQUENCE.  73 

instruct  the  people  in  that  which  they  already  know,  he 
would  fail ;  but,  by  making  them  wise  in  that  which  he 
knows,  he  lias  the  advantage  of  the  assembly  every  mo 
ment.  Napoleon's  tactics  of  marching  on  the  angle  of 
an  army,  and  always  presenting  a  superiority  of  num 
bers,  is  the  orator's  secret  also. 

The  several  talents  which  the  orator  employs,  the 
splendid  weapons  which  went  to  the  equipment  of  De 
mosthenes,  of  ^Eschines,  of  Demades  the  natural  orator, 
of  Fox,  of  Pitt,  of  Patrick  Henry,  of  Adams,  of  Mira- 
beau,  deserve  a  special  enumeration.  We  must  not 
quite  omit  to  name  the  principal  pieces. 

The  orator,  as  we  have  seen,  must  be  a  substantial 
personality.  Then,  first,  he  must  have  power  of  state 
ment,  —  must  have  the  fact,  and  know  how  to  tell  it. 
In  any  knot  of  men  conversing  on  any  subject,  the  per 
son  who  knows  most  about  it  will  have  the  ear  of  the 
company,  if  he  wishes  it,  and  lead  the  conversation,  — 
no  matter  what  genius  or  distinction  other  men  there 
present  may  have  ;  and  in  any  public  assembly,  him  who 
has  the  facts,  and  can  and  will  state  them,  people  will 
listen  to,  though  he  is  otherwise  ignorant,  though  he  is 
hoarse  and  ungraceful,  though  he  stutters  and  screams. 

In  a  court  of  justice,  the  audience  are  impartial ;  they 
really  wish  to  sift  the  statements  and  know  what  the 
truth  is.  And  in  the  examination  of  witnesses  there  usu 
ally  leap  out,  quite  unexpectedly,  three  or  four  stub 
born  words  or  phrases  which  are  the  pith  and  fate  of  the 
business,  which  sink  into  the  ear  of  all  parties,  and  stick 
there,  and  determine  the  cause.  All  the  rest  is  repeti 
tion  and  qualifying ;  and  the  court  and  the  county  have 
4 


71'  ELOQUENCE. 

really  come  together  to  arrive  at  these  three  or  four 
memorable  expressions,  which  betrayed  the  miiid  and 
meaning  of  somebody. 

In  every  company,  the  man  with  the  fact  is  like  the 
guide  you  hire  to  lead  your  party  up  a  mountain,  or 
through  a  difficult  country.  He  may  not  compare  with 
any  of  the  party  in  mind,  or  breeding,  or  courage,  or 
possessions,  but  lie  is  much  more  important  to  the  pres 
ent  need  than  any  of  them.  That  is  what  we  go  to 
the  court-house  for,  —  the  statement  of  the  fact,  and  the 
elimination  of  a  general  fact,  the  real  relation  of  all  the 
parties ;  and  it  is  the  certainty  with  which,  indifferently 
in  any  affair  that  is  well  handled,  the  truth  stares  us  in 
the  face,  through  all  the  disguises  that  are  put  upon  it,  — 
a  piece  of  the  well-known  human  life,  —  that  makes  the 
interest  of  a  court-room  to  the  intelligent  spectator, 

I  remember,  long  ago,  being  attracted  by  the  distinc 
tion  of  the  counsel,  and  the  local  importance  of  the  cause, 
into  the  court-room.  The  prisoner's  counsel  were  the 
strongest  and  cunningcst  lawyers  in  the  Commonwealth. 
They  drove  the  attorney  for  the  Slate  from  corner  to 
corner,  taking  his  reasons  from  under  him,  and  redu 
cing  him  to  silence,  but  not  to  submission.  When  hard 
pressed,  he  revenged  himself,  in  his  turn,  on  the  judge, 
by  requiring  the  court  to  define  what  salvage  was.  The 
court,  thus  pushed,  tried  words,  and  said  everything  it 
could  think  of  to  fill  the  time,  supposing  cases,  and  de 
scribing  duties  of  insurers,  captains,  pilots,  and  miscella 
neous  sea-officers  that  are  or  might  be,  — like  a  school 
master  puzzled  by  a  hard  sum,  who  reads  the  context 
with  emphasis.  But  all  this  ilood  not  serving  the  cuttle- 


ELOQUENCE.  75 

fish  to  get  away  in,  the  horrible  shark  of  the  district- 
attoruey  being  still  there,  grimly  awaiting  with  his  "  The 
court  must  define,"  —  the  poor  court  pleaded  its  inferior 
ity.  The  superior  court  must  establish  the  law  for  this, 
and  it  read  away  piteously  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  but  read  to  those  who  had  no  pity.  The  judge 
was  forced  at  last  to  rule  something,  and  the  lawyers 
saved  their  rogue  under  the  fog  of  a  definition.  The 
parts  were  so  well  cast  and  discriminated,  that  it  was  an 
interesting  game  to  watch.  The  government  was  well 
enough  represented.  It  was  stupid,  but  it  had  a  strong 
will  and  possession,  and  stood  on  that  to  the  last.  The 
judge  had  a  task  beyond  his  preparation,  yet  his  position 
remained  real :  he  was  there  to  represent  a  great  reality, 
—  the  justice  of  states,  which  we  could  well  enough  see 
beetling  over  his  head,  and  which  his  trifling  talk  no 
wise  affected,  and  did  not  impede,  since  he  was  entirely 
well-meaning. 

The  statement,  of  the  fact,  however,  sinks  before  the 
statement  of  the  law,  which  requires  immeasurably  higher 
powers,  and  is  a  rarest  gift,  being  in  all  great  masters 
one  and  the  same  thing,  —  in  lawyers,  nothing  technical, 
but  always  some  piece  of  common-sense,  alike  interesting 
to  laymen  as  to  clerks.  Lord  Mansfield's  merit  is  the 
merit  of  common-sense.  It  is  the  same  quality  we  ad 
mire  in  Aristotle,  Montaigne,  Cervantes,  or  in  Samuel 
Johnson,  or  Eranklin.  Its  application  to  law  seems 
quite  accidental.  Each  of  Mansfield's  famous  decisions 
contains  a  level  sentence  or  two,  which  hit  the  mark. 
His  sentences  are  not  always  finished  to  the  eye,  but  are 
finished  to  the  mind.  The  sentences  are  involved,  but  a 


ELOQUENCE. 

solid  proposition  is  set  forth,  a  true  distinction  is  drawn. 
They  come  from  and  they  go  to  the  sound  human  under 
standing  ;  and  I  read  without  surprise  that  the  black- 
letter  lawyers  of  the  day  sneered  at  his  "equitable  decis 
ions,"  as  if  they  were  not  also  learned.  This,  indeed,  is 
what  speech  is  for,  —  to  make  the  statement ;  and  all  that 
is  called  eloquence  seems  to  me  of  little  use,  for  the  most 
part,  to  those  who  have  it,  but  inestimable  to  such  as 
have  something  to  say. 

Next  to  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  and  its  law  is 
method,  which  constitutes  the  genius  and  efficiency  of 
all  remarkable  men.  A  crowd  of  men  go  up  to  Faneuil 
Hall ;  they  are  all  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  object 
of  the  meeting;  they  have  all  read  the  facts  in  the  same 
newspapers.  The  orator  possesses  no  information  which 
his  hearers  have  not ;  yet  he  teaches  them  to  see  the 
thing  with  his  eyes.  By  the  new  placing,  the  circum 
stances  acquire  new  solidity  and  worth.  Every  fact  gains 
consequence  by  his  naming  it,  and  trifles  become  impor 
tant.  His  expressions  fix  themselves  in  men's  memories, 
and  fly  from  mouth  to  mouth.  His  mind  has  some  new 
principle  of  order.  Where  he  looks,  all  things  fly  into 
their  places.  What  will  he  say  next  ?  Let  this  man 
speak,  and  this  man  only.  By  applying  the  habits  of  a 
higher  style  of  thought  to  the  common  affairs  of  this 
world,  he  introduces  beauty  and  magnificence  wherever 
he  goes.  Such  a  power  was  Burke's,  and  of  this  genius 
we  have  had  some  brilliant  examples  in  our  own  political 
and  legal  men. 

Imagery.  The  orator  must  be,  to  a  certain  extent,  a 
poet.  We  are  such  imaginative  creatures,  that  nothing 


ELOQUENCE.  77 

so  works  on  the  human  mind,  barbarous  or  civil,  as  a 
trope.  Condense  some  daily  experience  into  a  glowing 
symbol,  and  an  audience  is  electrified.  They  feel  as  if 
they  already  possessed  some  new  right  and  power  over  a 
fact,  which  they  can  detach,  and  so  completely  master  in 
thought.  It  is  a  wonderful  aid  to  the  memory,  which 
carries  away  the  image,  and  never  loses  it.  A  popular 
assembly,  like  the  House  of  Commons,  or  the  French 
Chamber,  or  the  American  Congress,  is  commanded  by 
these  two  powers,  —  first  by  a  fact,  then  by  skill  of  state 
ment.  Put  the  argument  into  a  concrete  shape,  into  an 
image,  —  some  liard  phrase,  round  and  solid  as  a  ball, 
which  they  can  see  and  handle  and  carry  home  with  them, 
—  and  the  cause  is  half  won. 

Statement,  method,  imagery,  selection,  tenacity  of 
memory,  power  of  dealing  with  facts,  of  illuminating  them, 
of  sinking  them  by  ridicule  or  by  diversion  of  the  mind, 
rapid  generalization,  humor,  pathos,  are  keys  which  the 
orator  holds  ;  and  yet  these  fine  gifts  are  not  eloquence, 
and  do  often  hinder  a  man's  attainment  of  it.  And  if 
we  come  to  the  heart  of  the  mystery,  perhaps  we  should 
say  that  the  truly  eloquent  man  is  a  sane  man  with  power 
to  communicate  his  sanity.  If  you  arm  the  man  with 
the  extraordinary  weapons  of  this  art,  give  him  a  grasp 
of  facts,  learning,  quick  fancy,  sarcasm,  splendid  allusion, 
interminable  illustration, —all  these  talents,  so  potent 
and  charming,  have  an  equal  power  to  insnare  and  mis 
lead  the  audience  and  the  orator.  His  talents  are  too 
much  for  him,  his  horses  run  away  with  him ;  and  peo 
ple  always  perceive  whether  you  drive,  or  \vhether  the 
horses  take  the  bits  in  their  teeth  and  run.  But  these 


78  ELOQUENCE. 

talents  are  quite  something  else  when  they  are  subordi 
nated  and  serve  him ;  and  we  go  to  Washington,  or  to 
Westminster  Hall,  or  might  well  go  round  the  world,  to 
see  a  man  who  drives,  and  is  not  run  away  with,  —  a 
man  who,  in  prosecuting  great  designs,  has  an  absolute 
command  of  the  means  of  representing  his  ideas,  and 
uses  them  only  to  express  these ;  placing  facts,  placing 
men;  amid  the  inconceivable  levity  of  human  beings, 
never  for  an  instant  warped  from  his  ercctness.  There 
is  for  every  man  a  statement  possible  of  that  truth  which 
he  is  most  unwilling  to  receive, —  a  statement  possible, 
so  broad  and  so  pungent  that  he  cannot,  get  away  from 
it,  but  must  either  bond  to  it  or  die  of  it.  Else  there 
would  be  no  such  word  as  eloquence,  which  means  this. 
The  listener  cannot  hide  from  himself  that  something  has 
b?en  shown  him  and  the  whole  world,  which  he  did  not 
wish  to  S3e  ;  and,  as  he  cannot  dispose  of  it,  it  disposes 
of  him.  Tli3  history  of  public  men  and  affairs  in  America 
will  readily  furnish  tragic  examples  of  this  fatal  force. 

For  the  triumphs  of  the  art  somewhat  more  must  still 
be  required,  namely,  a  reinforcing  of  man  from  events, 
so  as  to  give  the  double  force  of  reason  and  destiny.  In 
transcendent  eloquence,  there  was  ever  some  crisis  in 
affairs,  such  as  could  deeply  engage  the  man  to  the  cause 
lie  pleads,  and  draw  all  this  wide  power  to  a  point.  For 
the  explosions  and  eruptions,  there  must  be  accumula 
tions  of  heat  somewhere,  beds  of  ignited  anthracite  at 
the  centre.  And  in  cases  where  profound  convict  ion  Jias 
been  wrought,  the  eloquent  man  is  he  who  is  no  beautiful 
speaker,  but  who  is  inwardly  drunk  with  a  certain  belief. 
It  agitates  and  tears  him,  and  perhaps  almost  bereaves 


ELOQUENCE.  79 

him  of  the  power  of  articulation.  Then  it  rushes  from 
him  as  in  short,  abrupt  screams,  in  torrents  of  meaning. 
Tlie  possession  the  subject  has  of  his  mind  is  so  entire, 
that  it  insures  an  order  of  expression  which  is  the  order 
of  Nature  itself,  and  so  the  order  of  greatest  force,  and 
inimitable  by  any  art.  And  the  main  distinction  between 
him  and  other  well-graced  actors  is  the  conviction,  com 
municated  by  every  word,  that  his  mind  is  contemplating 
a  whole,  and  inflamed  by  the  contemplation  of  the  whole, 
and  that  the  words  and  sentences  uttered  by  him,  how 
ever  admirable,  fall  from  him  as  unregarded  parts  of  that 
terrible  whole  which  he  sees,  and  which  he  means  that 
you  shall  see.  And  to  this  concentration  a  certain  reg 
nant  calmness,  which,  in  all  the  tumult,  never  utters  a 
premature  syllable,  but  keeps  the  secret  of  its  means  and 
method  ;  and  the  orator  stands  before  the  people  as  a 
demoniacal  power  to  whose  miracles  they  have  no  key. 
This  terrible  earnestness  makes  good  the  ancient  super 
stition  of  the  hunter,  that  the  bullet  will  hit  its  mark, 
which  is  first  dipped  in  the  marksman's  blood. 

Eloquence  must  be  grounded  on  the  plainest  narrative. 
Afterwards,  it  may  warm  itself  until  it  exhales  symbols 
of  every  kind  and  color,  speaks  only  through  the  most 
poetic  forms  ;  but,  first  and  last,  it  must  still  be  at  bot 
tom  a  biblical  statement  of  fact.  The  orator  is  thereby 
an  orator,  that  he  keeps  his  feet  ever  on  a  fact.  Thus 
only  is  he  invincible.  No  gifts,  no  graces,  no  power  of 
wit  or  learning  or  illustration,  will  make  any  amends  for 
want  of  this.  All  audiences  are  just  to  this  point.  Fame 
of  voice  or  of  rhetoric  will  carry  people  a  few  times  to 
hear  a  speaker;  but  they  soon  begin  to  ask,  "What  is 


80  ELOQUEKCE. 

lie  driving  at  ?  "  and  if  this  man  docs  not  stand  for  any 
thing,  he  will  be  deserted.  A  good  upholder  of  anything 
which  they  believe,  a  fact-speaker  of  any  kind,  they  will 
long  follow ;  but  a  pause  in  the  speaker's  own  character 
is  very  properly  a  loss  of  attraction.  The  preacher  enu 
merates  his  classes  of  men,  and  I  do  not  find  my  place 
therein ;  I  suspect,  then,  that  no  man  does.  Everything 
is  my  cousin;  and  whilst  he  speaks  things,  I  feel  that  he 
is  touching  some  of  my  relations,  and  I  am  uneasy ;  but 
whilst  he  deals  in  words,  we  are  released  from  attention. 
If  you  would  lift  me,  you  must  be  on  higher  ground.  If 
you  would  liberate  me,  you  must  be  free.  If  you  would 
correct  my  false  view  of  facts,  —  hold  up  to  me  the  same 
facts  in  the  true  order  of  thought,  and  I  cannot  go  back 
from  the  new  conviction. 

The  power  of  Chatham,  of  Pericles,  of  Luther,  rested 
on  this  strength  of  character,  which,  because  it  did  not 
and  could  not  fear  anybody,  made  nothing  of  their  an 
tagonists,  and  became  sometimes  exquisitely  provoking 
and  sometimes  terrific  to  these. 

We  are  slenderly  furnished  with  anecdotes  of  these 
men,  nor  can  we  help  ourselves  by  those  heavy  books  in 
which  their  discourses  are  reported.  Some  of  them  were 
writers,  like  Burke ;  but  most  of  them  were  not,  and  no 
record  at  all  adequate  to  their  fame  remains.  Besides, 
what  is  best  is  lost,  —  the  fiery  life  of  the  moment.  But 
the  conditions  for  eloquence  always  exist.  It  is  always 
dying  out  of  famous  places,  and  appearing  in  corners. 
Wherever  the  polarities  meet,  wherever  the  fresh  moral 
sentiment,  the  instinct  of  freedom  and  duty,  corne  in 
direct  opposition  to  fossil  conservatism  and  the  thirst  of 


ELOQUENCE.  81 

gain,  the  spark  will  pass.  The  resistance  to  slavery  in 
this  country  lias  been  a  fruitful  nursery  of  orators.  The 
natural  connection  by  which  it  drew  to  itself  a  train  of 
moral  reforms,  and  the  slight  yet  sufficient  party  organi 
zation  it  offered,  reinforced  the  city  with  new  blood  from 
the  woods  and  mountains.  Wild  men,  John  Baptists, 
Hermit  Peters,  John  Knoxes,  utter  the  savage  sentiment 
of  Nature  in  the  heart  of  commercial  capitals.  They 
send  us  every  year  some  piece  of  aboriginal  strength, 
some  tough  oak-stick  of  a  man  who  is  not  to  be  silenced 
or  insulted  or  intimidated  by  a  mob,  because  he  is  more 
mob  than  they,  —  one  who  mobs  the  mob,  —  some  sturdy 
countryman,  on  whom  neither  money,  nor  politeness,  nor 
hard  words,  nor  eggs,  nor  blows,  nor  brickbats,  make 
any  impression.  He  is  fit  to  meet  the  bar-room  wits  and 
bullies;  he  is  a  wit  and  a  bully  himself,  and  something 
more :  he  is  a  graduate  of  the  plough,  and  the  stub-hoe, 
and  the  bushwhacker;  knows  all  the  secrets  of  swamp 
and  snow-bank,  and  has  nothing  to  learn  of  labor  or 
poverty  or  the  rough  of  farming.  His  hard  head  went 
through,  in  childhood,  the  drill  of  Calvinism,  with  text 
and  mortification,  so  that  he  stands  in  the  New  England 
assembly  a  purer  bit  of  New  England  than  any,  and  flings 
his  sarcasms  right  and  left.  He  has  not  only  the  docu 
ments  in  his  pocket  to  answer  all  cavils,  and  to  prove  all 
his  positions,  but  he  has  the  eternal  reason  in  his  head. 
This  man  scornfully  renounces  your  civil  organizations, — 
county,  or  city,  or  governor,  or  army,  — is  his  own  navy 
and  artillery,  judge  and  jury,  legislature  and  executive. 
He  has  learned  his  lessons  in  a  bitter  school.  Yet,  if  the 
pupil  be  of  a  texture  to  bear  it,  the  best  university  that 
4*  P 


82  ELOQUENCE. 

can  be  recommended  to  a  man  of  ideas  is  the  gauntlet  of 
the  mobs. 

lie  who  will  train  himself  to  mastery  in  this  science  of 
persuasion  must  lay  the  emphasis  of  education,  not  on 
popular  arts,  but  on  character  and  insight.  Let  him  see 
that  his  speech  is  not  differenced  from  action;  that,  when 
he  has  spoken,  he  has  not  done  nothing,  nor  done  wrong, 
but  has  cleared  his  own  skirts,  has  engaged  himself  to 
wholesome  exertion.  Let  him  look  on  opposition  as  op- 
portunity.  He  cannot  be  defeated  or  put  down.  There 
is  a  principle  of  resurrection  in  him,  an  immortality  of 
purpose.  Men  are  averse  and  hostile,  to  give  value  to 
their  suffrages.  It  is  not  the  people  that  are  in  fault  for 
not  being  convinced,  but  he  that  cannot  convince  them. 
He  should  mould  them,  armed  as  he  is  with  the  reason 
and  love  which  are  also  the  core  of  their  nature.  He  is 
not  to  neutralize  their  opposition,  but  lie  is  to  convert 
them  into  fiery  apostles  and  publishers  of  the  same  wis 
dom. 

The  highest  platform  of  eloquence  is  the  moral  senti 
ment.  It  is  what  is  called  affirmative  truth,  and  has  the 
property  of  invigorating  the  hearer ;  and  it  conveys  a 
hint  of  our  eternity,  when  he  feels  himself  addressed  on 
grounds  which  will  remain  when  everything  else  is  taken, 
and  which  have  no  trace  of  time  or  place  or  party. 
Everything  hostile  is  stricken  down  in  the  presence  of 
the  sentiments  ;  their  majesty  is  felt  by  the  most  obdu 
rate.  It  is  observable  that,  as  soon  as  one  acts  for  large 
masses,  the  moral  element  will  and  must  be  allowed  for, 
will  and  must  work ;  and  the  men  least  accustomed  to 
appeal  to  these  sentiments  invariably  recall  them  when 


ELOQUENCE.  83 

they  address  nations.  Napoleon,  even,  must  accept  and 
use  it  as  lie  can. 

It  is  only  to  these  simple  strokes  that  the  highest 
power  belongs,  —  when  a  weak  human  hand  touches, 
point  by  point,  the  eternal  beams  and  rafters  on  which 
the  whole  structure  of  Nature  and  society  is  laid.  In 
this  tossing  sea  of  delusion,  we  feel  with  our  feet  the 
adamant ;  in  this  dominion  of  chance,  we  find  a  principle 
of  permanence.  For  I  do  not  accept  that  definition  of 
Isocrates,  that  the  office  of  his  art  is,  to  make  the  great 
small  and  the  small  great ;  but  I  esteem  this  to  be  its 
perfection,  —  when  the  orator  sees  through  all  masks  to 
the  eternal  scale  of  truth,  in  such  sort  that  he  can  hold 
up  before  the  eyes  of  men  the  fact  of  to-day  steadily  to 
that  standard,  thereby  making  tlie  great  great,  and  the 
small  small,  which  is  the  true  way  to  astonish  and  to 
reform  mankind. 

All  the  chief  orators  of  the  world  have  been  grave 
men,  relying  on  this  reality.  One  thought  the  philoso 
phers  of  Demosthenes's  own  time  found  running  through 
all  his  orations, — this  namely,  that  "virtue  secures  its 
own  success."  "  To  stand  on  one's  own  feet  "  Heeren 
finds  the  key-note  to  the  discourses  of  Demosthenes,  as 
of  Chatham. 

Eloquence,  like  every  other  art,  rests  on  laws  the  most 
exact  and  determinate.  It  is  the  best  speech  of  the  best 
soul.  It  may  well  stand  as  the  exponent  of  all  that  is 
grand  and  immortal  in  the  mind.  If  it  do  not  so  become 
an  instrument,  but  aspires  to  be  somewhat  of  itself,  and 
to  glitter  for  show,  it  is  false  and  weak.  In  its  right 
exercise,  it  is  an  clastic,  unexhausted  power,  —  who  has 


81  ELOQUENCE. 

sounded,  who  has  estimated  it  ?  —  expanding  with  the 
expansion  of  our  interests  and  affections.  Its  great  mas 
ters,  whilst  they  valued  every  help  to  its  attainment,  and 
thought  no  pains  too  great  which  contributed  in  any 
manner  to  further  it ;  —  resembling  the  Arabian  warrior 
of  fame,  who  wore  seventeen  weapons  in  his  belt,  and  in 
personal  combat  used  them  all  occasionally ;  — yet  subor 
dinated  all  means ;  never  permitted  any  talent  —  neither 
voice,  rhythm,  poetic  power,  anecdote,  sarcasm  —  to 
appear  for  show ;  but  were  grave  men,  who  preferred 
their  integrity  to  their  talent,  and  esteemed  that  object 
for  which  they  toiled,  whether  the  prosperity  of  their 
country,  or  the  laws,  or  a  reformation,  or  liberty  of 
speech  or  of  the  press,  or  letters,  or  morals,  as  above  the 
whole  world,  and  themselves  also. 


DOMESTIC    LIFE. 


DOMESTIC   LIFE. 


THE  perfection  of  tlie  providence  for  childhood  is  easily 
acknowledged.  The  care  which  covers  the  seed  of  the 
tree  under  tough  husks  and  stony  cases,  provides  for  the 
human  plant  the  mother's  breast  and  the  father's  house. 
The  size  of  the  nestler  is  comic,  and  its  tiny  beseeching 
weakness  is  compensated  perfectly  by  the  happy  patron 
izing  look  of  the  mother,  who  is  a  sort  of  high  reposing 
Providence  toward  it.  Welcome  to  the  parents  the  puny 
straggler,  strong  in  his  weakness,  his  little  arms  more 
irresistible  than  the  soldier's,  his  lips  touched  with  per 
suasion  which  Chatham  and  Pericles  in  manhood  had  not. 
His  unaffected  lamentations  when  he  lifts  up  his  voice  on 
high,  or,  more  beautiful,  the  sobbing  child,  —  the  face  all 
liquid  grief,  as  he  tries  to  swallow  his  vexation,  —  soften 
all  hearts  to  pity,  and  to  mirthful  and  clamorous  compas 
sion.  The  small  despot  asks  so  little  that  all  reason  and 
all  nature  are  on  his  side.  His  ignorance  is  more  charm 
ing  than  all  knowledge,  and  his  little  sins  more  bewitch 
ing  than  any  virtue.  His  flesh  is  angels'  flesh,  all  alive. 
"Infancy,"  said  Coleridge,  "presents  body  and  spirit  in 
unity  :  the  body  is  all  animated."  All  day,  between  his 
three  or  four  sleeps,  he  coos  like  a  pigeon-house,  sput 
ters,  and  spurs,  and  puts  on  his  faces  of  importance ;  and 


88  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

when  lie  fasts,  the  little  Pharisee  fails  not  to  sound  his 
trumpet  before  him.  By  lamplight  he  delights  in  shad 
ows  on  the  wall;  by  daylight,  in  yellow  and  scarlet. 
Carry  him  out  of  doors,  —  he  is  overpowered  by  the  light 
and  by  the  extent  of  natural  objects,  and  is  silent.  Then 
presently  begins  his  use  of  his  fingers,  and  he  studies 
power,  the  lesson  of  his  race.  First  it  appears  in  no 
great  harm,  in  architectural  tastes.  Out  of  blocks, 
thread-spools,  cards,  and  checkers,  he  will  build  his  pyr 
amid  with  the  gravity  of  Palladio.  With  an  acoustic 
apparatus  of  whistle  and  rattle  he  explores  the  laws  of 
sound.  But  chiefly,  like  his  senior  countrymen,  the 
young  American  studies  new  and  speedier  modes  of 
transportation.  Mistrusting  the  cunning  of  his  small  legs, 
he  wishes  to  ride  on  the  necks  and  shoulders  of  all  flesh. 
The  small  enchanter  nothing  can  withstand,  —  no  senior 
ity  of  age,  no  gravity  of  character  ;  uncles,  aunts,  grand- 
sires,  grandams,  fall  an  easy  prey :  he  conforms  to  nobody, 
all  conform  to  him  ;  all  caper  and  make  mouths,  and 
babble,  and  chirrup  to  him.  On  the  strongest  shoulders 
he  rides,  and  pulls  the  hair  of  laurelled  heads. 

"  The  childhood,"  said  Milton,  "  shows  the  man,  as 
morning  shows  the  day."  The  child  realizes  to  every 
man  his  own  earliest  remembrance,  and  so  supplies  a 
defect  in  our  education,  or  enables  us  to  live  over  the 
unconscious  history  with  a  sympathy  so  tender  as  to  be 
almost  personal  experience. 

Fast  — almost  too  fast  for  the  wistful  curiosity  of  the 
parents,  studious  of  the  witchcraft  of  curls  and  dimples 
and  broken  words  —  the  little  talker  grows  to  a  boy.  He 
walks  daily  among  wonders:  fire,  light,  darkness,  the 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  89 

moon,  the  stars,  the  furniture  of  the  house,  the  red  tin 
horse,  the  domestics,  who  like  rude  foster-mothers  be 
friend  and  feed  him,  the  faces  that  claim  his  kisses,  are  all 
in  turn  absorbing  ;  yet  warm,  cheerful,  and  with  good  ap 
petite  the  little  sovereign  subdues  them  without  knowing 
it ;  the  new  knowledge  is  taken  up  into  the  life  of  to-day 
and  becomes  the  means  of  more.  The  blowing  rose  is  a 
new  event ;  the  garden  full  of  flowers  is  Eden  over  again 
to  the  small  Adam  ;  the  rain,  the  ice,  the  frost,  make 
epochs  in  his  life.  What  a  holiday  is  the  first  snow  in 
which  Twoshoes  can  be  trusted  abroad ! 

What  art  can  paint  or  gild  any  object  in  after-life  with 
the  glow  which  Nature  gives  to  the  first  bawbles  of  child 
hood  !  St.  Peter's  cannot  have  the  magical  power  over 
us  that  the  red  and  gold  covers  of  our  first  picture-book 
possessed.  How  the  imagination  cleaves  to  the  warm 
glories  of  that  tinsel  even  now !  What  entertainments 
make  every  day  bright  and  short  for  the  fine  freshman  ! 
The  street  is  old  as  Nature  ;  the  persons  all  have  their 
sacredness.  His  imaginative  life  dresses  all  things  in 
their  best.  His  fears  adorn  the  dark  parts  with  poetry. 
He  has  heard  of  wild  horses  and  of  bad  boys,  and  with  a 
pleasing  terror  he  watches  at  his  gate  for  the  passing  of 
those  varieties  of  each  species.  The  first  ride  into  the 
country,  the  first  bath  in  running  water,  the  first  time  the 
skates  are  put  on,  the  first  game  out  of  doors  in  moon 
light,  the  books  of  the  nursery,  are  new  chapters  of  joy. 
"  The  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments,"  the  "  Seven 
Champions  of  Christendom,"  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and 
the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  —  what  mines  of  thought  and 
emotion,  what  a  wardrobe  to  dress  the  whole  world  withal, 


1)0  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

arc  in  tin's  encyclopaedia  of  young  thinking !  And  so  by 
beautiful  traits,  which,  without  art,  yet  seem  the  master 
piece  of  wisdom,  provoking  the  love  that  watches  and 
educates  him,  the  little  pilgrim  prosecutes  the  journey 
through  nature  which  he  has  thus  gayly  begun.  He 
grows  up  the  ornament  and  joy  of  the  house,  which  rings 
to  his  glee,  to  rosy  boyhood. 

The  household  is  the  home  of  the  man,  as  well  as  of 
the  child.  The  events  that  occur  therein  are  more  near 
and  affecting  to  us  than  those  which  are  sought  in  sen 
ates  and  academies.  Domestic  events  are  certainly  our 
affair.  What  arc  called  public  events  may  or  may  not  be 
ours.  If  a  man  wishes  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  real 
history  of  the  world,  with  the  spirit  of  the  age,  he  must 
not  go  first  to  the  state-house  or  the  court-room.  The 
subtle  spirit  of  life  must  be  sought  in  facts  nearer.  It  is 
what  is  done  and  suffered  in  the  house,  in  the  constitu 
tion,  in  the  temperament,  in  the  personal  history,  that 
has  the  profoundest  interest  for  us.  Fact  is  better  than 
fiction,  if  only  we  could  get  pure  fact.  Do  you  think 
any  rhetoric  or  any  romance  would  get  your  ear  from  the 
wise  gypsy  who  could  tell  straight  on  the  real  fortunes 
of  the  man ;  who  could  reconcile  your  moral  character 
and  your  natural  history ;  who  could  explain  your  misfor 
tunes,  your  fevers,  your  debts,  your  temperament,  your 
habits  of  thought,  your  tastes,  and,  in  every  explanation, 
not  sever  you  from  the  whole,  but  unite  you  to  it?  Is 
it  not  plain  that  not  in  senates,  or  courts,  or  chambers  of 
commerce,  but  in  the  dwelling-house  must  the  true  char 
acter  and  hope  of  the  time  be  consulted  ?  These  facts 
are,  to  be  sure,  harder  to  read.  It  is  easier  to  count  the 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  91 

census,  or  compute  the  square  extent  of  a  territory,  to 
criticise  its  polity,  books,  art,  than  to  come  to  the  per 
sons  and  dwellings  of  men,  and  read  their  character  and 
hope  in  their  way  of  life.  Yet  we  are  always  hovering 
round  this  better  divination.  In  one  form  or  another, 
•we  are  always  returning  to  it.  The  physiognomy  and 
phrenology  of  to-day  are  rash  and  mechanical  systems 
enough,  but  they  rest  on  everlasting  foundations.  We 
are  sure  that  the  sacred  form  of  man  is  not  seen  in  these 
whimsical,  pitiful,  and  sinister  masks  (masks  which  we 
wear  and  which  we  meet),  these  bloated  and  shrivelled 
bodies,  bald  heads,  bead  eyes,  short  winds,  puny  and  pre 
carious  healths,  and  early  deaths.  We  live  ruins  amidst 
ruins.  The  great  facts  are  the  near  ones.  The  account 
of  the  body  is  to  be  sought  in  the  mind.  The  history  of 
your  fortunes  is  written  first  in  your  life. 

Let  us  come,  then,  out  of  the  public  square,  and  enter 
the  domestic  precinct,  Let  us  go  to  the  sitting-room, 
the  table-talk,  and  the  expenditure  of  our  contempora 
ries.  An  increased  consciousness  of  the  soul,  you  say, 
characterizes  the  period.  Let  us  see  if  it  has  not  only 
arranged  the  atoms  at  the  circumference,  but  the  atoms 
at  the  core.  Does  the  household  obey  an  idea?  Do 
you  see  the  man,  —  his  form,  genius,  and  aspiration,  - 
in  his  economy  ?  Is  that  translucent,  thorough-lighted  ? 
There  should  be  nothing  confounding  and  conventional 
in  economy,  but  the  genius  and  love  of  the  man  so  con 
spicuously  marked  in  all  his  estate,  that  the  eye  that 
knew  him  should  read  his  character  in  his  property,  in 
his  grounds,  in  his  ornaments,  in  every  expense.  A 
man's  money  should  not  follow  the  direction  of  his  neigh- 


DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

bor's  money,  but  should  represent  to  him  the  things  he 
would  willingliest  do  with  it.  I  am  not  one  thing  and 
my  expenditure  another.  My  expenditure  is  me.  That 
our  expenditure  and  our  character  are  twain,  is  the  vice 
of  society. 

We  ask  the  price  of  many  things  in  shops  and  stalls, 
but  some  things  each  man  buys  without  hesitation,  if  it 
were  only  letters  at  the  post-office,  conveyance  in  car 
riages  and  boats,  tools  for  his  work,  books  that  are  writ 
ten  to  his  condition,  etc.  Let  him  never  buy  anything  else 
than  what  he  wants,  never  subscribe  at  others'  instance, 
never  give  unwillingly.  Thus,  a  scholar  is  a  literary 
foundation.  All  his  expense  is  for  Aristotle,  Fabricius, 
Erasmus,  and  Petrarch.  Do  not  ask  him  to  help  with 
his  savings  young  drapers  or  grocers  to  stock  their  shops, 
or  eager  agents  to  lobby  in  legislatures,  or  join  a  com 
pany  to  build  a  factory  or  a  fishing-craft.  These  things 
are  also  to  be  done,  but  not  by  such  as  he.  How  could 
such  a  book  as  Plato's  Dialogues  have  come  down,  but 
for  the  sacred  savings  of  scholars  and  their  fantastic  ap 
propriation  of  them  ? 

Another  man  is  a  mechanical  genius,  an  inventor  of 
looms,  a  builder  of  ships, —  a  ship-building  foundation, 
and  could  achieve  nothing  if  he  should  dissipate  himself 
on  books  or  on  horses.  Another  is  a  farmer,  —  an  agricul 
tural  foundation ;  another  is  a  chemist, —  and  the  same 
rule  holds  for  all.  We  must  not  make  believe  with  our 
money,  but  spend  heartily,  and  buy  up  and  not  down. 

I  am  afraid  that,  so  considered,  our  houses  will  not  be 
found  to  have  unity,  and  to  express  the  best  thought. 
The  household,  the  calling,  the  friendships,  of  the  citi- 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  93 

zen  are  not  homogeneous.  His  house  ought  to  show  us 
his  honest  opinion  of  what  makes  his  well-being  when  he 
rests  among  his  kindred,  and  forgets  all  affectation,  com 
pliance,  and  even  exertion  of  will.  He  brings  home  what 
ever  commodities  and  ornaments  have  for  years  allured 
his  pursuit,  and  his  character  must  be  seen  in  them.  But 
what  idea  predominates  in  our  houses  ?  Thrift  first,  then 
convenience  and  pleasure.  Take  off  all  the  roofs,  from 
street  to  street,  and  we  shall  seldom  find  the  temple  of 
any  higher  god  than  Prudence.  The  progress  of  domes 
tic  living  has  been  in  cleanliness,  in  ventilation,  in  health, 
in  decorum,  in  countless  means  and  arts  of  comfort,  in 
the  concentration  of  all  the  utilities  of  every  clime  in 
each  house.  They  are  arranged  for  low  benefits.  The 
houses  of  the  rich  are  confectioners'  shops,  where  we  get 
sweetmeats  and  wine  ;  the  houses  of  the  poor  are  imita 
tions  of  these  to  the  extent  of  their  ability.  With  these 
ends  housekeeping  is  not  beautiful ;  it  cheers  and  raises 
neither  the  husband,  the  wife,  nor  the  child ;  neither  the 
host,  nor  the  guest ;  it  oppresses  women.  A  house  kept 
to  the  end  of  prudence  is  laborious  without  joy ;  a  house 
kept  to  the  end  of  display  is  impossible  to  all  but  a  few 
women,  and  their  success  is  dearly  bought. 

If  we  look  at  this  matter  curiously,  it  becomes  dan 
gerous.  We  need  all  the  force  of  an  idea  to  lift  this  load ; 
for  the  wealth  and  multiplication  of  conveniences  embar 
rass  us,  especially  in  northern  climates.  The  shortest 
enumeration  of  our  wants  in  this  rugged  climate  appalls 
us  by  the  multitude  of  things  not  easy  to  be  done.  And 
if  you  look  at  the  multitude  of  particulars,  one  would 
say :  Good  housekeeping  is  impossible ;  order  is  too 


94  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

precious  a  thing  to  dwell  with  men  and  women.  See,  in 
families  where  there  is  both  substance  and  taste,  at  what 
expense  any  favorite  punctuality  is  maintained.  If  the 
children,  for  example,  are  considered,  dressed,  dieted,  at 
tended,  kept  in  proper  company,  schooled,  and  at  home 
fostered  by  the  parents,  —  then  does  the  hospitality  of 
the  house  suffer ;  friends  are  less  carefully  bestowed,  the 
daily  table  less  catered.  If  the  hours  of  meals  are  punc 
tual,  the  apartments  are  slovenly.  If  the  linens  and  hang 
ings  are  clean  and  fine,  and  the  furniture  good,  the  yard, 
the  garden,  the  fences,  are  neglected.  If  all  are  well  at 
tended,  then  must  the  master  and  mistress  be  studious  of 
particulars  at  the  cost  of  their  own  accomplishments  and 
growth,  —  or  persons  are  treated  as  things. 

The  difficulties  to  be  overcome  must  be  freely  admit 
ted  ;  they  are  many  and  great.  Nor  are  they  to  be  dis 
posed  of  by  any  criticism  or  amendment  of  particulars 
taken  one  at  a  time,  but  only  by  the  arrangement  of  the 
household  to  a  higher  end  than  those  to  which  our  dwell 
ings  are  usually  built  and  furnished.  And  is  there  any 
calamity  more  grave,  or  that  more  invokes  the  best  good 
will  to  remove  it,  than  this  ?  —  to  go  from  chamber  to 
chamber,  and  see  no  beauty  ;  to  find  in  the  housemates 
no  aim  ;  to  hear  an  endless  chatter  and  blast ;  to  be  com 
pelled  to  criticise ;  to  hear  only  to  dissent  and  to  be  dis 
gusted  ;  to  find  no  invitation  to  what  is  good  in  us,  and 
no  receptacle  for  what  is  wise ;  —  this  is  a  great  price 
to  pay  for  sweet  bread  and  warm  lodging,  —  being  de 
frauded  of  affinity,  of  repose,  of  genial  culture,  and  the 
inmost  presence  of  beauty. 

It  is  a  sufficient  accusation  of  our  ways  of  living,  and 


DOMESTIC    LrFE.  95 

certainly  ought  to  open  our  ear  to  every  good-minded 
reformer,  that  our  idea  of  domestic  well-being  now  needs 
wealth  to  execute  it.  Give  me  the  means,  says  the  wife, 
and  your  house  shall  not  annoy  your  taste  nor  waste  your 
time.  On  hearing  this,  we  understand  how  these  Means 
have  come  to  be  so  omnipotent  on  earth.  And  indeed 
the  love  of  wealth  seems  to  grow  chiefly  out  of  the  root 
of  the  love  of  the  Beautiful.  The  desire  of  gold  is  not 
for  gold.  It  is  not  the  love  of  much  wheat  and  wool  and 
household-stuff.  It  is  the  means  of  freedom  and  benefit. 
We  scorn  shifts  ;  we  desire  the  elegance  of  munificence  ; 
we  desire  at  least  to  put  no  stint  or  limit  on  our  parents, 
relatives,  guests,  or  dependants  ;  we  desire  to  play  the 
benefactor  and  the  prince  with  our  townsmen,  with  the 
stranger  at  the  gate,  with  the  bard,  or  the  beauty,  with 
the  man  or  woman  of  worth,  who  alights  at  our  door. 
How  can  we  do  this,  if  the  wants  of  each  day  imprison 
us  in  lucrative  -labors,  and  constrain  us  to  a  continual 
vigilance  lest  we  be  betrayed  into  expense  ? 

Give  MS  wealth,  and  the  home  shall  exist.  But  that  is 
a  very  imperfect  and  inglorious  solution  of  the  problem, 
and  therefore  no  solution.  "  Give  us  wealth."  You  ask 
too  much.  Few  have  wealth  ;  but  all  must  have  a  home. 
Men  are  not  born  rich ;  and  in  getting  wealth,  the  man 
is  generally  sacrificed,  and  often  is  sacrificed  without 
acquiring  wealth  at  last.  Besides,  that  cannot  be  the 
right  answer  ;  —  there  are  objections  to  wealth.  Wealth 
is  a  shift.  The  wise  man  angles  with_  himself  only,  and 
with  no  meaner  bait.  Our  whole  use  of  wealth  needs 
revision  and  reform.  Generosity  does  not  consist  in  giv 
ing  money  or  money's  worth.  Thi-se  so-called  goods  are 


9G  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

only  the  shadow  of  good.  To  give  money  to  a  sufferer 
is  only  a  come-off.  It  is  only  a  postponement  of  the 
real  payment,  a  bribe  paid  for  silence,  —  a  credit-system 
in  which  a  paper  promise  to  pay  answers  for  the  time 
instead  of  liquidation.  We  owe  to  man  higher  succors 
than  food  and  fire.  We  owe  to  man  man.  If  he  is  sick, 
is  unable,  is  mean-spirited  and  odious,  it  is  because  there 
is  so  much  of  his  nature  which  is  unlawfully  withliolden 
from  him.  He  should  be  visited  in  this  his  prison  with 
rebuke  to  the  evil  demons,  with  manly  encouragement, 
with  no  mean-spirited  offer  of  condolence  because  you 
have  not  money,  or  mean  offer  of  money  as  the  utmost 
benefit,  but  by  your  heroism,  your  purity,  and  your  faith. 
You  are  to  bring  with  you  that  spirit  which  is  under 
standing,  health,  and  self-help.  To  offer  him  money  in 
lieu  of  these  is  to  do  him  the  same  wrong  as  when  the 
bridegroom  offers  his  betrothed  virgin  a  sum  of  money 
to  release  him  from  his  engagements.  The  great  depend 
on  their  heart,  not  on  their  purse.  Genius  and  virtue, 
like  diamonds,  are  best  plain-set,  —  set  in  lead,  set  in 
poverty.  The  greatest  man  in  history  was  the  poorest. 
How  Was  it  with  the  captains  and  sages  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  with  Socrates,  with  Epaminondas  ?  Aristides  was 
made  general  receiver  of  Greece,  to  collect  the  tribute 
which  each  state  was  to  furnish  against  the  barbarian. 
"  Poor,"  says  Plutarch,  "  when  he  set  about  it,  poorer 
when  he  had  finished  it."  How  was  it  with  ^Emilius  and 
Cato  ?  What  kind  of  house  was  kept  by  Paul  and  John, 
—  by  Milton  and  Marvell,  —  by  Samuel  Johnson,  —  by 
Samuel  Adams  in  Boston,  and  Jean  Paul  llichter  at 
Baireulh  r* 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  97 

I  think  it  plain  that  this  voice  of  communities  and 
ages,  "  Give  us  wealth,  and  the  good  household  shall 
exist,"  is  vicious,  and  leaves  the  whole  difficulty  un 
touched.  It  is  better,  certainly,  in  this  form,  "  Give  us 
your  labor,  and  the  household  begins."  I  see  not  how 
serious  labor,  the  labor  of  all  and  every  day,  is  to  be 
avoided  ;  and  many  things  betoken  a  revolution  of  opin 
ion  and  practice  in  regard  to  manual  labor  that  may  go 
far  to  aid  our  practical  inquiry.  Another  age  may  divide 
the  manual  labor  of  the  world  more  equally  on  all  the 
members  of  society,  and  so  make  the  labors  of  a  few 
hours  avail  to  the  wants  and  add  to  the  vigor  of  the  man. 
But  the  reform  that  applies  itself  to  the  household  must 
not  be  partial.  It  must  correct  the  whole  system  of  our 
social  living.  It  must  come  with  plain  living  and  high 
thinking  ;  it  must  break  up  caste,  and  put  domestic  ser 
vice  on  another  foundation.  It  must  come  in  connection 
with  a  true  acceptance  by  each  man  of  his  vocation,  — 
not  chosen  by  his  parents  or  friends,  but  by  his  genius, 
with  earnestness  and  love. 

Nor  is  this  redress  so  hopeless  as  it  seems.  Certainly, 
if  we  begin  by  reforming  particulars  of  our  present  sys 
tem,  correcting  a  few  evils  and  letting  the  rest  stand,  we 
shall  soon  give  up  in  despair.  For  our  social  forms  are 
very  far  from  truth  and  equity.  But  the  way  to  set  the 
axe  at  the  root  of  the  tree  is  to  raise  our  aim.  Let  us 
understand,  then,  that  a  house  should  bear  witness  in  all 
its  economy  that  human  culture  is  the  end  to  which  it  is 
bu!lt  and  garnished.  It  stands  there  under  the  sun  and 
moon  to  ends  analogous,  and  not  less  noble  than  theirs. 
It  is  not  for  festivity,  it  is  not  for  sleep :  but  the  pine 
5  o 


D8  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

and  flic  oak  shall  gladly  descend  from  the  mountains  to 
uphold  the  roof  of  men  as  faithful  and  necessary  as  them 
selves  ;  to  be  the  shelter  always  open  to  good  and  true 
persons  ;  —  a  hall  which  shines  with  sincerity,  brows  ever 
tranquil,  and  a  demeanor  impossible  to  disconcert ;  whose 
inmates  know  what  they  want;  who  do  not  ask  your 
house  how  theirs  should  be  kept.  They  have  aims  :  they 
cannot  pause  for  trifles.  The  diet  of  the  house  does  not 
create  its  order,  but  knowledge,  character,  action,  absorb 
so  much  life  and  yield  so  much  entertainment  that  the 
refectory  has  ceased  to  be  so  curiously  studied.  With  a 
change  of  aim  has  followed  a  change  of  the  whole  scale 
by  which  men  and  things  were  wont  to  be  measured. 
Wealth  and  poverty  are  seen  for  what  they  are.  It  be 
gins  to  be  seen  that  the  poor  are  only  they  who  feel  poor, 
and  poverty  consists  in  feeling  poor.  The  rich,  as  we 
reckon  them,  and  among  them  the  very  rich,  in  a  true 
scale  would  be  found  very  indigent  and  ragged.  The 
great  make  us  feel,  first  of  all,  the  indifference  of  circum 
stances.  They  call  into  activity  the  higher  perceptions, 
and  subdue  the  low  habits  of  comfort  and  luxury;  but 
the  higher  perceptions  find  their  objects  everywhere: 
only  the  low  habits  need  palaces  and  banquets. 

Let  a  man,  then,  say,  My  house  is  here  in  the  county, 
for  the  culture  of  the  county  ;  —  an  eating-house  and 
sleeping-house  for  travellers  it  shall  be,  but  it  shall  be 
much  more.  I  pray  you,  O  excellent  wife,  not  to  cum 
ber  yourself  and  me  to  get  a  rich  dinner  for  this  man  or 
this  woman  who  has  alighted  at  our  gate,  nor  a  bed 
chamber  made  ready  at  too  great  a  cost.  These  things, 
if  they  are  curious  in,  they  can  get  for  a  dollar  at  any 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  99 

village.  But  let  this  stranger,  if  lie  will,  in  your  looks, 
in  your  accent  and  behavior,  read  your  heart  and  earnest 
ness,  your  thought  and  will,  which  he  cannot  buy  at  any 
price,  in  any  village  or  city,  and  which  he  may  well  travel 
fifty  miles,  and  dine  sparely  and  sleep  hard,  in  order  to 
behold.  Certainly,  let  the  board  be  spread  and  let  the 
bed  be  dressed  for  the  traveller ;  but  let  not  the  emphasis 
of  hospitality  lie  in  these  things.  Honor  to  the  house 
where  they  are  simple  to  the  verge  of  hardship,  so  that 
there  the  intellect  is  awake  and  reads  the  laws  of  the 
universe,  the  soul  worships  truth  and  love,  honor  and 
courtesy  flow  into  all  deeds. 

There  was  never  a  country  in  the  world  which  could 
so  easily  exhibit  this  heroism  as  ours ;  never  anywhere 
the  State  has  made  such  efficient  provision  for  popular 
education,  where  intellectual  entertainment  is  so  within 
reach  of  youthful  ambition.  The  poor  man's  son  is 
educated.  There  is  many  a  humble  house  in  every  city, 
in  every  town,  where  talent  and  taste,  and  sometimes 
genius,  dwell  with  poverty  and  labor.  Who  has  not 
seen,  and  who  can  see  unmoved,  under  a  low  roof,  the 
eager,  blushing  boys  discharging  as  they  can  their  house 
hold  chores,  and  hastening  into  the  sitting-room  to  the 
study  of  to-morrow's  merciless  lesson,  yet  stealing  time 
to  read  one  chapter  more  of  the  novel  hardly  smuggled 
into  the  tolerance  of  father  and  mother,  —  atoning  for 
the  same  by  some  pages  of  Plutarch  or  Goldsmith ;  the 
warm  sympathy  with  which  they  kindle  each  other  in 
school-yard,  or  in  barn  or  wood-shed,  with  scraps  of 
po3try  or  song,  with  phrases  of  the  last  oration,  or  mim 
icry  of  the  orator ;  the  youthful  criticism,  on  Sunday, 


100  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

of  the  sermons;  the  school  declamation  faithfully  re 
hearsed  at  home,  sometimes  to  the  fatigue,  sometimes  to 
the  admiration  of  sisters;  the  first  solitary  joys  of  liter 
ary  vanity,  when  the  translation  or  the  theme  has  been 
completed,  sitting  alone  near  the  top  of  the  house  ;  the 
cautious  comparison  of  the  attractive  advertisement  of 
the  arrival  of  Macready,  Booth,  or  Kemble,  or  of  the 
discourse  of  a  well-known  speaker,  with  the  expense  of 
the  entertainment;  the  affectionate  delight  with  which 
they  greet  the  return  of  each  one  after  Ihe  early  separa 
tions  which  school  or  business  require;  the  foresight 
with  which,  during  such  absences,  they  hive  the  honey 
which  opportunity  offers,  for  the  ear  and  imagination  of 
the  others;  and  the  unrestrained  glee  with  which  they 
disburden  themselves  of  their  early  mental  treasures 
when  the  holidays  bring  them  again  together?  What 
is  the  hoop  that  holds  them  stanch?  It  is  the  iron  band 
of  poverty,  of  necessity,  of  austerity,  which,  excluding 
them  from  the  sensual  enjoyments  which  make  other 
boys  too  early  old,  has  directed  their  activity  in  safe  and 
right  channels,  and  made  them,  despite  themselves,  re- 
verers  of  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  and  the  good.  Ah  ! 
short-sighted  students  of  books,  of  Nature,  and  of  man  ! 
too  happy,  could  they  know  their  advantages.  They 
pine  for  freedom  from  that  mild  parental  yoke  ;  they  sigh 
for  fine  clothes,  for  rides,  for  the  theatre,  and  premature 
freedom  and  dissipation,  which  others  possess.  Woe  to 
them,  if  their  wishes  were  crowned  !  The  angels  that 
dwell  with  them,  and  are  weaving  laurels  of  life  for 
their  youthful  brows,  are  Toil,  and  Want,  and  Truth, 
and  Mutual  Faith. 


DOMESTIC  T.IFE.      fJj  -,  :JL91 

In  many  parts  of  true  economy  a  cheering  lesson  may 
be  learned  from  the  mode  of  life  and  manners  of  the 
later  Romans,  as  described  to  us  in  the  letters  of  the 
younger  Pliny.  Nor  can  I  resist  the  temptation  of  quot 
ing  so  trite  an  instance  as  the  noble  housekeeping  of 
Lord  Falkland  in  Clarendon  :  "  His  house  being  within 
little  more  than  ten  miles  from  Oxford,  he  contracted 
familiarity  and  friendship  with  the  most  polite  and  accu 
rate  men  of  that  University,  who  found  such  an  immense- 
ness  of  wit,  and  such  a  solidity  of  judgment  in  him,  so 
infinite  a  fancy,  bound  in  by  a  most  logical  ratiocination, 
sucli  a  vast  knowledge  that  he  was  not  ignorant  in  any 
thing,  yet  such  an  excessive  humility,  as  if  he  had  known 
nothing,  that  they  frequently  resorted  and  dwelt  with 
him,  as  in  a  college  situated  in  a  purer  air;  so  that 
his  house  was  a  university  in  a  less  volume,  whither 
they  came,  not  so  much  for  repose  as  study,  and  to 
examine  and  refine  those  grosser  propositions  which 
laziness  and  consent  made  current  in  vulgar  conversa 
tion." 

I  honor  that  man  whose  ambition  it  is,  not  to  win 
laurels  in  the  state  or  the  army,  not  to  be  a  jurist  or  a 
naturalist,  not  to  be  a  poet  or  a  commander,  but  to  be 
a  master  of  living  well,  and  to  administer  the  offices  of 
master  or  servant,  of  husband,  father,  and  friend.  But 
it  requires  as  much  breadth  of  power  for  this  as  for  those 
other  functions,  —  as  much,  or  more,  —  and  the  reason 
for  the  failure  is  the  same.  I  think  the  vice  of  our 
housekeeping  is,  that  it  does  not  hold  man  sacred.  The 
vice  of  government,  the  vice  of  education,  the  vice  of 
religion,  is  one  with  that  of  private  life. 


DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

Iii  the  old  fables,  we  used  to  read  of  a  cloak  brought 
from  fairy-land  as  a  gift  for  the  fairest  and  purest  in 
Prince  Arthur's  court.  It  was  to  be  her  prize  whom 
it  would  fit.  Every  one  was  eager  to  try  it  on,  but  it 
would  fit  nobody  :  for  one  it  was  a  world  too  wide,  for 
the  next  it  dragged  on  the  ground,  and  for  the  third  it 
shrunk  to  a  scarf.  They,  of  course,  said  that  the  devil  was 
in  the  mantle,  for  really  the  truth  was  in  the  mantle,  and 
was  exposing  the  ugliness  which  each  would  fain  con 
ceal.  All  drew  back  with  terror  from  the  garment.  The 
innocent  Genelas  alone  could  wear  it.  In  like  manner, 
every  man  is  provided  in  his  thought  with  a  measure  of 
man  which  he  applies  to  every  passenger.  Unhappily, 
not  one  in  many  thousands  comes  up  to  the  stature  and 
proportions  of  the  model.  Neither  does  the  measurer 
himself,  neither  do  the  people  in  the  street ;  neither  do 
the  select  individuals  whom  he  admires,  — the  heroes  of 
the  race.  When  he  inspects  them  critically,  he  discovers 
that  their  aims  are  low,  that  they  are  too  quickly  satis 
fied.  He  observes  the  swiftness  with  which  life  cul 
minates,  and  the  humility  of  the  expectations  of  the  great 
est  part  of  men.  To  each  occurs,  soon  after  the  age  of 
puberty,  some  event,  or  society,  or  way  of  living,  which 
becomes  the  crisis  of  life,  and  the  chief  fact  in  their  his 
tory.  In  woman,  it  is  love  and  marriage  (which  is  more 
reasonable) ;  and  yet  it  is  pitiful  to  date  and  measure  all 
the  facts  and  sequel  of  an  unfolding  life  from  such  a 
youthful,  and  generally  inconsiderate,  period  as  the  age 
of  courtship  and  marriage.  In  men,  it  is  their  place  of 
education,  choice  of  an  employment,  settlement  in  a 
town,  or  removal  to  the  East  or  to  the  West,  or  some 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  103 

other  magnified  trifle,  which  makes  the  meridian  mo 
ment,  and  all  the  after  years  and  actions  only  derive 
interest  from  their  relation  to  that.  Hence  it  comes 
that  we  soon  catch  the  trick  of  each  man's  conversation, 
and,  knowing  his  two  or  three  main  facts,  anticipate 
wjiat  he  thinks  of  each  new  topic  that  rises.  It  is 
scarcely  less  perceivable  in  educated  men,  so  called,  than 
in  the  uneducated.  I  have  seen  finely  endowed  men  at 
college  festivals,  ten,  twenty  years  after  they  had  left  the 
halls,  returning,  as  it  seemed,  the  same  boys  who  went 
away.  The  same  jokes  pleased,  the  same  straws  tickled  ; 
the  manhood  and  offices  they  brought  thither  at  this 
return  seemed  mere  ornamental  masks :  underneath  they 
were  boys  yet.  We  never  come  to  be  citizens  of  the 
world,  but  are  still  villagers,  who  think  that  everything 
in  their  petty  town  is  a  little  superior  to  the  same  thing 
anywhere  else.  In  each  the  circumstance  signalized  dif 
fers,  but  in  each  it  is  made  the  coals  of  an  ever-burning 
egotism.  In  one,  it  was  his  going  to  sea  ;  in  a  second, 
the  difficulties  he  combated  in  going  to  college ;  in  a 
third,  his  journey  to  the  West,  or  his  voyage  to  Canton; 
in  a  fourth,  his  coming  out  of  the  Quaker  Society ;  in 
a  fifth,  his  new  diet  and  regimen  ;  in  a  sixth,  his  coming 
forth  from  the  abolition  organizations  ;  and  in  a  seventh, 
his  going  into  them.  It  is  a  life  of  toys  and  trinkets. 
We  are  too  easily  pleased. 

I  think  this  sad  result  appears  in  the  manners.  The 
men  we  see  in  each  other  do  not  give  us  the  image  and 
likeness  of  man.  The  men  we  see  are  whipped  through 
the  world ;  they  are  harried,  wrinkled,  anxious ;  they  all 
seem  the  hacks  of  some  invisible  riders.  How  seldom 


104  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

do  we  behold  tranquillity !  We  have  never  yet  seen  a 
man.  We  do  not  know  the  majestic  manners  that  be 
long  to  him,  which  appease  and  exalt  the  beholder. 
There  are  no  divine  persons  with  us,  and  the  multitude 
do  not  hasten  to  be  divine.  And  yet  we  hold  fast,  all 
our  lives  long,  a  faith  in  a  better  life,  in  better  men,  in 
clean  and  noble  relations,  notwithstanding  our  total 
inexperience  of  a  true  society.  Certainly,  this  was  not 
the  intention  of  nature,  to  produce,  with  all  this  immense 
expenditure  of  means  and  power,  so  cheap  and  humble  a 
result.  The  aspirations  in  the  heart  after  the  good  and 
true  teach  us  better, — nay,  the  men  themselves  suggest 
a  better  life. 

Every  individual  nature  has  its  own  beauty.  One  is 
struck  in  every  company,  at  every  fireside,  with  the 
riches  of  nature,  when  he  hears  so  many  new  tones,  all 
musical,  sees  in  each  person  original  manners,  which 
have  a  proper  and  peculiar  charm,  and  reads  new  ex 
pressions  of  face.  He  perceives  that  nature  has  laid  for 
each  the  foundations  of  a  divine  building,  if  the  soul  will 
build  thereon.  There  is  no  face,  no  form,  which  one 
cannot  in  fancy  associate  with  great  power  of  intellect 
or  with  generosity  of  soul.  In  our  experience,  to  be 
sure,  beauty  is  not,  as  it  ought  to  be,  the  dower  of  man 
and  of  woman  as  invariably  as  sensation.  Beauty  is, 
even  in  the  beautiful,  occasional,  —  or,  as  one  has  said, 
culminating  and  perfect  only  a  single  moment,  before 
which  it  is  unripe,  and  after  which  it  is  on  the  wane. 
But  beauty  is  never  quite  absent  from  our  eyes.  Every 
face,  every  figure,  suggests  its  own  right  and  sound 
estate.  Our  friends  are  not  their  own  highest  form. 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  105 

But  let  the  hearts  they  have  agitated  witness  what  power 
has  lurked  in  the  traits  of  these  structures  of  clay  that 
pass  and  repass  us  !  The  secret  power  of  form  over  the 
imagination  and  affections  transcends  all  our  philosophy. 
Tlie  first  glance  we  meet  may  satisfy  us  that  matter  is 
the  vehicle  of  higher  powers  than  its  own,  and  that  no 
laws  of  line  or  surface  can  ever  account  for  the  inex 
haustible  expressiveness  of  form.  We  see  heads  that 
turn  on  the  pivot  of  the  spine,  — no  more;  and  we  see 
heads  that  seem  to  turn  on  a  pivot  as  deep  as  the  axle  of 
the  world, — so  slow,  and  lazily,  and  great,. they  move. 
"We  see  on  the  lip  of  our  companion  the  presence  or 
absence  of  the  great  masters  of  thought  and  poetry  to 
his  mind.  We  read  in  his  brow,  on  meeting  him  after 
many  years,  that  he  is  where  we  left  him,  or  that  he  has 
made  great  strides. 

Wliilst  thus  nature  and  the  hints  we  draw  from  man 
suggest  a  true  and  lofty  life,  a  household  equal  to  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  this  world,  especially  we  learn 
the  same  lesson  from  those  best  relations  to  individual 
men  which  the  heart  is  always  prompting  us  to  form. 
Happy  will  that  house  be  in  which  the  relations  are 
formed  from  character,  after  the  highest,  and  not  after 
the  lowest  order ;  the  house  in  which  character  marries, 
and  not  confusion  and  a  miscellany  of  unavowable  mo 
tives.  Then  shall  marriage  be  a  covenant  to  secure  to 
either  party  the  sweetness  and  honor  of  being  a  calm, 
continuing,  inevitable  benefactor  to  the  other.  Yes,  and 
the  sufficient  reply  to  the  sceptic  who  doubts  the  com 
petence  of  man  to  elevate  and  to  be  elevated  is  in  that 
desire  and  power  to  stand  in  joyful  and  ennobling  inter- 
5* 


106  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

course  with  individuals,  which  makes  the  faith  and  the 
practice  of  all  reasonable  men. 

The  ornament  of  a  house  is  the  friends  who  frequent 
it.  There  is  no  event  greater  in  life  than  the  appearance 
of  new  persons  about  our  hearth,  except  it  be  the  pro 
gress  of  the  character  which  draws  them.  It  has  been 
finely  added  by  Landor  to  his  definition  of  the  great  man, 
"  It  is  he  who  can  call  together  the  most  select  company 
when  it  pleases  him."  A  verse  of  the  old  Greek  Menan- 
der  remains,  which  runs  in  translation  :  — 

"  Not  on  the  store  of  sprightly  wine, 

Nor  plenty  of  delicious  meats, 
Though  generous  Nature  did  design 

To  court  us  with  perpetual  treats,  — 
'T  is  not  on  these  we  for  content  depend, 
So  much  as  on  the  shadow  of  a  Friend." 

It  is  the  happiness  which,  where  it  is  truly  known, 
postpones  all  other  satisfactions,  and  makes  politics  and 
commerce  and  churches  cheap.  For  we  figure  to  our 
selves,  —  do  we  not  ?  — that  when  men  shall  meet  as  they 
should,  as  states  meet,  —  each  a  benefactor,  a  shower  of 
falling  stars,  so  rich  with  deeds,  with  thoughts,  with  so 
much  accomplishment,  —  it  shall  be  the  festival  of  na 
ture,  which  all  things  symbolize ;  and  perhaps  Love  is 
only  the  highest  symbol  of  Friendship,  as  all  other  things 
seem  symbols  of  love.  In  the  progress  of  each  man's 
character,  his  relations  to  the  best  men,  which  at  first 
seem  only  the  romances  of  youth,  acquire  a  graver  im 
portance  ;  and  he  will  have  learned  the  lesson  of  life  who 
is  skilful  in  the  ethics  of  friendship. 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  107 

Beyond  its  primary  ends  of  the  conjugal,  parental,  and 
amicable  relations,  the  household  should  cherish  the  beau 
tiful  arts  and  the  sentiment  of  veneration. 

1.  Whatever  brings  the  dweller  into  a  finer  life,  what 
educates  his  eye,  or  ear,  or  hand,  whatever  purifies  and 
enlarges  him,  may  well  find  place  there.  And  yet  let 
him  not  think  that  a  property  in  beautiful  objects  is 
necessary  to  his  apprehension  of  them,  and  seek  to  turn 
his  house  into  a  museum.  Rather  let  the  noble  practice 
of  the  Greeks  find  place  in  our  society,  and  let  the  crea 
tions  of  the  plastic  arts  be  collected  with  care  in  galleries 
by  the  piety  and  taste  of  the  people,  and  yielded  as  freely 
as  the  sunlight  to  all.  Meantime,  be  it  remembered,  we 
are  artists  ourselves,  and  competitors,  each  one,  with 
Phidias  and  Raphael  in  the  production  of  what  is  grace 
ful  or  grand.  The  fountain  of  beauty  is  the  heart,  and 
every  generous  thought  illustrates  the  walls  of  your 
chamber.  Why  should  we  owe  our  power  of  attracting 
our  friends  to  pictures  and  vases,  to  cameos  and  archi 
tecture  ?  Why  should  we  convert  ourselves  into  show 
men  and  appendages  to  our  fine  houses  and  our  works  of 
art  ?  If  by  love  and  nobleness  we  take  up  into  ourselves 
the  beauty  we  admire,  we  shall  spend  it  again  on  all 
around  us.  The  man,  the  woman,  needs  not  the  em 
bellishment  of  canvas  and  marble,  whose  every  act  is  a 
subject  for  the  sculptor,  and  to  whose  eye  the  gods  and 
nymphs  never  appear  ancient;  for  they  know  by  heart 
the  whole  instinct  of  majesty. 

I  do  not  undervalue  the  fine  instruction  which  statues 
and  pictures  give.  But  I  think  the  public  museum  in 


108  DOMESTIC     LIFE. 

each  town  will  one  day  relieve  the  private  house  of  this 
charge  of  owning  and  exhibiting  them.  I  go  to  Rome 
and  see  on  the  walls  of  the  Vatican  the  Transfiguration, 
painted  by  Raphael,  reckoned  the  first  picture  in  the 
world;  or  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  I  see  the  grand  sibyls 
and  prophets,  painted  in  fresco  by  Michel  Angelo,  — 
which  have  every  day  now  for  three  hundred  years  in 
flamed  the  imagination  and  exalted  the  piety  of  what  vast 
multitudes  of  men  of  all  nations  !  I  wish  to  bring  home 
to  my  children  and  my  friends  copies  of  these  admirable 
forms,  which  I  can  find  in  the  shops  of  the  engravers ; 
but  I  do  not  wish  the  vexation  of  owning  them.  I  wish 
to  find  in  my  own  town  a  library  and  museum  which  is 
the  property  of  the  town,  where  I  can  deposit  this  pre 
cious  treasure,  where  I  and  my  children  can  see  it  from 
time  to  time,  and  where  it  has  its  proper  place  among 
hundreds  of  such  donations  from  other  citizens  who  have 
brought  thither  whatever  articles  they  have  judged  to 
be  in  their  nature  rather  a  public  than  a  private  prop 
erty. 

A  collection  of  this  kind,  the  property  of  each  town, 
would  dignify  the  town,  and  we  should  love  and  respect 
our  neighbors  more.  Obviously,  it  would  be  easy  for 
every  town  to  discharge  this  truly  municipal  duty.  Every 
one  of  us  would  gladly  contribute  his  share  ;  and  the 
more  gladly,  the  more  considerable  the  institution  had 
become. 

2.  Certainly,  not  aloof  from  this  homage  to  beauty,  but 
in  strict  connection  therewith,  the  house  will  come  to  be 
esteemed  a  Sanctuary.  The  language  of  a  ruder  age  has 


DOMESTIC     LIFE.  109 

given  to  common  law  the  maxim  that  every  man's  house 
is  his  castle  :  the  progress  of  truth  will  make  every  house 
a  shriue.  Will  not  man  one  day  open  his  eyes  and  see 
how  dear  he  is  to  the  soul  of  Nature,  —  how  near  it  is 
to  him?  Will  he  not  see,  through  all  he  miscalls  acci 
dent,  that  Law  prevails  for  ever  and  ever;  that  his  pri 
vate  being  is  a  part  of  it ;  that  its  home  is  in  his  own 
unsounded  heart ;  that  his  economy,  his  labor,  his  good 
and  bad  fortune,  his  health  and  manners,  are  all  a  curious 
and  exact  demonstration  in  miniature  of  the  Genius  of 
the  Eternal  Providence  ?  When  he  perceives  the  Law, 
he  ceases  to  despond.  Whilst  he  sees  it,  every  thought 
and  act  is  raised,  and  becomes  an  act  of  religion.  Does 
the  consecration  of  Sunday  confess  the  desecration  of 
the  entire  week  ?  Does  the  consecration  of  the  church 
confess  the  profanation  of  the  house  ?  Let  us  read  the 
incantation  backward.  Let  the  man  stand  on  his  feet. 
Let  religion  cease  to  be  occasional ;  and  the  pulses  of 
thought  that  go  to  the  borders  of  the  universe,  let  them 
proceed  from  the  bosom  of  the  Household. 

These  are  the  consolations,  —  these  are  the  ends  to 
which  the  household  is  instituted  and  the  rooftree  stands. 
If  these  are  sought,  and  in  any  good  degree  attained, 
can  the  State,  can  commerce,  can  climate,  can  the  labor 
of  many  for  one,  yield  anything  better,  or  half  as  good  ? 
Beside  these  aims,  Society  is  weak  and  the  State  an 
intrusion.  I  think  that  the  heroism  which  at  this  day 
would  make  on  us  the  impression  of  Epaminondas  and 
Phocion  must  be  that  of  a  domestic  conqueror.  He 
who  shall  bravely  and  gracefully  subdue  this  Gorgon  of 
Convention  and  Fashion,  and  show  men  how  to  lead  a 


110  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

clean,  handsome,  and  heroic  life  amid  the  beggarly  ele 
ments  of  our  cities  and  villages ;  whoso  shall  teach  me 
how  to  eat  my  meat  and  take  my  repose,  and  deal  with 
men,  without  any  shame  following,  will  restore  the  life 
of  man  to  splendor,  and  make  his  own  name  dear  to  all 
history. 


FARMING. 


FARMING. 


THE  glory  of  the  farmer  is  that,  in  the  division  of 
labors,  it  is  his  part  to  create.  All  trade  rests  at  last  on 
his  primitive  activity.  He  stands  close  to  nature ;  Ite 
obtains  from  the  earth  the  bread  and  the  meat.  The 
food  which  was  not,  he  causes  to  be.  The  first  farmer 
was  the  first  man,  and  all  historic  nobility  rests  on  pos 
session  and  use  of  land.  Men  do  not  like  hard  work, 
but  every  man  has  an  exceptional  respect  for  tillage,  and 
a  feeling  that  this  is  the  original  calling  of  his  race,  that 
he  himself  is  only  excused  from  it  by  some  circumstance 
which  made  him  delegate  it  for  a  time  to  other  hands. 
If  he  have  not  some  skill  which  recommends  him  to  the 
farmer,  some  product  for  which  the  farmer  will  give  him 
corn,  he  must  himself  return  into  his  due  place  among 
the  planters.  And  the  profession  has  in  all  eyes  its 
ancient  charm,  as  standing  nearest  to  God,  the  first 
cause. 

Then  the  beauty  of  nature,  the  tranquillity  and  inno 
cence  of  the  countryman,  his  independence,  and  his 
pleasing  arts,  —  the  care  of  bees,  of  poultry,  of  sheep, 
of  cows,  the  dairy,  the  care  of  hay,  of  fruils,  of  orchards 
and  forests,  and  the  reaction  of  these  on  the  workman, 
in  giving  him  a  strength  and  plain  dignify,  like  the  face 

ii 


114  FARMING. 

and  manners  of  nature,  all  men  acknowledge.  All  men 
keep  the  farm  in  reserve  as  an  asylum  where,  in  case  of 
mischance,  to  hide  their  poverty,  —  or  a  solitude,  if  they 
do  not  succeed  in  society.  And  who  knows  how  many 
glances  of  remorse  are  turned  this  way  from  the  bank 
rupts  of  trade,  from  mortified  pleaders  in  courts  and 
senates,  or  from  the  victims  of  idleness  and  pleasure  ? 
Poisoned  by  town  life  and  town  vices,  the  sufferer  re 
solves  :  "  Well,  my  children,  whom  I  have  injured,  shall 
go  back  to  the  land,  to  be  recruited  and  cured  by  that 
which  should  have  been  my  nursery,  and  now  shall  be 
their  hospital." 

The  farmer's  office  is  precise  and  important,  but  you 
must  not  try  to  paint  him  in  rose-color ;  you  cannot 
make  pretty  compliments  to  fate  and  gravitation,  whose 
minister  he  is.  He  represents  the  necessities.  It  is  the 
beauty  of  the  great  economy  of  the  world  that  makes  his 
comeliness.  He  bends  to  the  order  of  the  seasons,  the 
weather,  the  soils  and  crops,  as  the  sails  of  a  ship  bend 
to  the  wind.  He  represents  continuous  hard  labor,  year 
in,  year  out,  and  small  gains.  He  is  a  slow  person, 
timed  to  nature,  and  not  to  city  watches.  He  takes  the 
pace  of  seasons,  plants,  and  chemistry.  Nature  never 
hurries  :  atom  by  atom,  little  by  little,  she  achieves  her 
work.  The  lesson  one  learns  in  fishing,  yachting,  hunt 
ing,  or  planting,  is  the  manners  of  Nature  ;  patience 
with  the  delays  of  wind  and  sun,  delays  of  the  seasons, 
bad  weather,  excess  or  lack  of  water, — patience  with 
the  slowness  of  our  feet,  with  the  parsimony  of  our 
strength,  with  the  largeness  of  sea  and  land  we  must 
traverse,  etc.  The  farmer  times  himself  to  Nature,  and 


FARMING.  115 

acquires  that  livelong  patience  which  belongs  to  her. 
Slow,  narrow  man,  his  rule  is,  that  the  earth  shall  feed 
and  clothe  him ;  and  he  must  wait  for  his  crop  to  grow. 
His  entertainments,  his  liberties,  and  his  spending  must 
be  on  a  fanner's  scale,  and  not  on  a  merchant's.  It 
were  as  false  for  farmers  to  use  a  wholesale  and  massy 
expense,  as  for  states  to  use  a  minute  economy.  But 
if  thus  pinched  on  one  side,  he  has  compensatory  advan 
tages.  He  is  permanent,  clings  to  his  land  as  the  rocks 
do.  In  the  town  where  I  live,  farms  remain  in  the  same 
families  for  seven  and  eight  generations  ;  and  most  of 
the  first  settlers  (in  1635),  should  they  reappear  on  the 
farms  to-day,  would  find  their  own  blood  and  names 
still  in  possession.  And  the  like  fact  holds  in  the  sur 
rounding  towns. 

This  hard  work  will  always  be  done  by  one  kind  of 
man ;  not  by  scheming  speculators,  nor  by  soldiers,  nor 
professors,  nor  readers  of  Tennyson  ;  but  by  men  of  en 
durance,  —  deep-chested,  long-winded,  tough,  slow  and 
sure,  and  timely.  The  farmer  has  a  great  health,  and 
the  appetite  of  health,  and  means  to  his  end  :  he  has 
broad  lands  for  his  home,  wood  to  burn  great  fires, 
plenty  of  plain  food ;  his  milk,  at  least,  is  unwatered  ; 
and  for  sleep,  he  has  cheaper  and  better  and  more  of  it 
than  citizens. 

He  has  grave  trusts  confided  to  him.  In  the  great 
household  of  Nature,  the  farmer  stands  at  the  door  of 
the  bread-room,  and  weighs  to  each  his  loaf.  It  is  for 
him  to  say  whether  men  shall  marry  or  not.  Early  mar 
riages  and  the  number  of  births  are  indissolubly  con 
nected  with  abundance  of  food;  or,  as  Burke  said, 


116  FARMING. 

"  Man  breeds  at  the  mouth."  Then  he  is  the  Board  of 
Quarantine.  The  farmer  is  a  hoarded  capital  of  health, 
as  the  farm  is  the  capital  of  wealth ;  and  it  is  from  him 
that  the  health  and  power,  moral  and  intellectual,  of  the 
cities  came.  The  city  is  always  recruited  from  the 
country.  The  men  in  cities  who  are  the  centres  of 
energy,  the  driving-wheels  of  trade,  politics,  or  practi 
cal  arts,  and  the  women  of  beauty  and  genius  are  the 
children  or  grandchildren  of  farmers,  and  are  spending 
the  energies  which  their  fathers'  hardy,  silent  life  ac 
cumulated  in  frosty  furrows,  in  poverty,  necessity,  and 
darkness. 

He  is  the  continuous  benefactor.  He  who  digs  a 
well,  constructs  a  stone  fountain,  plants  a  grove  of  trees 
by  the  roadside,  plants  an  orchard,  builds  a  durable 
house,  reclaims  a  swamp,  or  so  much  as  puts  a  stone 
seat  by  the  wayside,  makes  the  land  so  far  lovely  and 
desirable,  makes  a  fortune  which  he  cannot  carry  away 
with  him,  but  which  is  useful  to  his  country  long  after 
wards.  The  man  that  works  at  home  helps  society  at 
large  with  somewhat  more  of  certainty  than  he  who 
devotes  himself  to  charities.  If  it  be  true  that,  not  by 
votes  of  political  parties,  but  by  the  eternal  laws  of 
political  economy,  slaves  are  driven  out  of  a  slave  State 
as  fast  as  it  is  surrounded  by  free  States,  then  the  true 
abolitionist  is  the  farmer,  who,  heedless  of  laws  and  con 
stitutions,  stands  all  day  in  the  field,  investing  his  labor 
in  the  land,  and  making  a  product  with  which  no  forced 
labor  can  compete. 

We  commonly  say  that  the  rich  man  can  speak  the 
truth,  can  afford  honesty,  can  afford  independence  of 


FARMING.  117 

opinion  and  action ;  —  and  that  is  the  theory  of  nobility. 
33ut  is  the  rich  man  in  a  true  sense,  that  is  to  say,  not 
the  man  of  large  income  and  large  expenditure,  but 
solely  the  man  whose  outlay  is  less  than  his  income  and 
is  steadily  kept  so. 

In  English  factories,  the  boy  that  watches  the  loom,  to 
tie  the  thread  when  the  wheel  stops  to  indicate  that  a 
thread  is  broken,  is  called  a  minder.  And  in  this  great 
factory  of  our  Copernican  globe,  shifting  its  slides ;  ro 
tating  its  constellations,  times,  and  tides ;  bringing  now 
the  day  of  planting,  then  of  watering,  then  of  weeding, 
then  of  reaping,  then  of  curing  and  storing,  — the  farmer 
is  the  minder.  His  machine  is  of  colossal  proportions, 
—  the  diameter  of  the  water-wheel,  the  arms  of  the 
levers,  the  power  of  the  battery,  are  out  of  all  mechanic 
measure ;  —  and  it  takes  him  long  to  understand  its 
parts  and  its  working.  This  pump  never  "sucks"; 
these  screws  are  never  loose  ;  this  machine  is  never  out 
of  gear  ;  the  vat  and  piston,  wheels  and  tires,  never  wear 
out,  but  are  self-repairing. 

Who  are  the  farmer's  servants  ?  Not  the  Irish,  nor 
the  coolies,  but  Geology  and  Chemistry,  the  quarry  of  the 
air,  the  water  of  the  brook,  the  lightning  of  the  cloud, 
the  castings  of  the  worm,  the  plough  of  the  frost.  Long 
before  he  was  born,  the  sun  of  ages  decomposed  the 
rocks,  mellowed  his  land,  soaked  it  with  light  and  heat, 
covered  it  with  vegetable  film,  then  with  forests,  and 
accumulated  the  sphagnum  whose  decays  made  the  peat 
of  his  meadow. 

Science  has  shown  the  great  circles  in  which  nature 
works  ;  the  manner  in  which  marine  plants  balance  the  ma- 


118  FARMING. 

riue  animals,  as  the  laud  plants  supply  the  oxygen  which 
the  animals  consume,  and  the  animals  the  carbon  which 
the  plants  absorb.  These  activities  are  incessant.  Na 
ture  works  on  a  method  of  all  for  each  and  each  for  all. 
The  strain  that  is  made  on  one  point  bears  on  every  arch 
and  foundation  of  the  structure.  There  is  a  perfect  soli 
darity.  You  cannot  detach  an  atom  from  its  holdings, 
or  strip  off  from  it  the  electricity,  gravitation,  chemic 
affinity,  or  the  relation  to  light  and  heat,  and  leave  the 
atom  bare.  No,  it  brings  with  it  its  universal  ties. 

Nature,  like  a  cautious  testator,  ties  up  her  estate, 
so  as  not  to  bestow  it  all  on  one  generation,  but  has  a 
forelooking  tenderness  and  equal  regard  to  the  next  and 
the  next,  and  the  fourth,  and  the  fortieth  age. 

There  lie  the  inexhaustible  magazines.  The  eternal 
rocks,  as  we  call  them,  have  held  their  oxygen  or  lime 
undiminished,  entire,  as  it  was.  No  particle  of  oxygen 
can  rust  or  wear,  but  has  the  same  energy  as  on  the  first 
morning.  The  good  rocks,  those  patient  waiters,  say  to 
him :  "  We  have  the  sacred  power  as  we  received  it. 
We  have  not  failed  of  our  trust,  and  now  —  when  in  our 
immense  day  the  hour  is  at  last  struck  —  take  the  gas  we 
have  hoarded  ;  mingle  it  with  water ;  and  let  it  be  free 
to  grow  in  plants  and  animals,  and  obey  the  thought  of 
man." 

The  earth  works  for  him  ;  the  earth  is  a  machine  which 
yields  almost  gratuitous  service  to  every  application  of 
intellect.  Every  plant  is  a  manufacturer  of  soil.  In  the 
stomach  of  the  plant  development  begins.  The  tree  can 
draw  on  the  whole  air,  the  whole  earth,  on  all  the  rolling 
main.  The  plant  is  all  suction-pipe,  —  imbibing  from  the 


FARMING.  119 

ground  by  its  root,  from  the  air  by  its  leaves,  with  all  its 
might. 

The  air  works  for  him.  The  atmosphere,  a  sharp  sol 
vent,  drinks  the  essence  and  spirit  of  every  solid  on  the 
globe,  —  a  menstruum  which  melts  the  mountains  into  it. 
Air  is  matter  subdued  by  heat.  As  the  sea  is  the  grand 
receptacle  of  all  rivers,  so  the  air  is  the  receptacle  from 
which  all  things  spring,  and  into  which  they  all  return. 
The  invisible  and  creeping  air  takes  form  and  solid  mass. 
Our  senses  are  sceptics,  and  believe  only  the  impression 
of  the  moment,  and  do  not  believe  the  chemical  fact  that 
these  huge  mountain-chains  are  made  up  of  gases  and 
rolling  wind.  But  Nature  is  as  subtle  as  she  is  strong. 
She  turns  her  capital  day  by  day ;  deals  never  with  dead, 
but  ever  with  quick  subjects.  All  things  are  flowing, 
even  those  that  seem  immovable.  The  adamant  is  al 
ways  passing  into  smoke.  The  plants  imbibe  the  ma 
terials  which  they  want  from  the  air  and  the  ground. 
They  burn,  that  is,  exhale  and  decompose  their  own 
bodies  into  the  air  and  earth  again.  The  animal  burns, 
or  undergoes  the  like  perpetual  consumption.  The  earth 
burns, — the  mountains  burn  and  decompose,  —  slower, 
but  incessantly.  It  is  almost  inevitable  to  push  the  gen 
eralization  up  into  higher  parts  of  nature,  rank  over  rank 
into  sentient  beings.  Nations  burn  with  internal  fire  of 
thought  and  affection,  which  wastes  while  it  works.  We 
shall  find  finer  combustion  and  finer  fuel.  Intellect  is  a 
fire  :  rash  and  pitiless  it  melts  this  wonderful  bone-house 
which  is  called  man.  Genius  even,  as  it  is  the  greatest 
good,  is  the  greatest  harm.  Whilst  all  thus  burns,  —  the 
universe  in  a  blaze  kindled  from  the  torch  of  the  sun,  — 


120  FARMING. 

it  needs  a  perpetual  tempering,  a  phlegm,  a  sleep,  atmos 
pheres  of  azote,  deluges  of  water,  to  check  the  fury  of 
the  conflagration ;  a  hoarding  to  check  the  spending ;  a 
centripetence  equal  to  the  centrifugeuee :  and  this  is  in 
variably  supplied. 

The  railroad  dirt-cars  are  good  excavators ;  but  there 
is  no  porter  like  Gravitation,  who  will  bring  down  any 
weights  which  man  cannot  carry,  and  if  he  wants  aid, 
knows  where  to  find  his  fellow-laborers.  Water  works 
in  masses,  and  sets  its  irresistible  shoulder  to  your  mills 
or  your  ships,  or  transports  vast  bowlders  of  rock  in  its 
iceberg  a  thousand  miles.  But  its  far  greater  power  de 
pends  on  its  talent  of  becoming  little,  and  entering  the 
smallest  holes  and  pores.  By  this  agency,  carrying  in 
solution  elements  needful  to  every  plant,  the  vegetable 
world  exists. 

But  as  I  said,  we  must  not  paint  the  farmer  in  rose- 
color.  Whilst  these  grand  energies  have  wrought  for 
him,  and  made  his  task  possible,  he  is  habitually  engaged 
in  small  economies,  and  is  taught  the  power  that  lurks  in 
petty  things.  Great  is  the  force  of  a  few  simple  arrange 
ments  ;  for  instance,  the  powers  of  a  fence.  On  the 
prairie  you  wander  a  hundred  miles,  and  hardly  find  a 
stick  or  a  stone.  At  rare  intervals,  a  thin  oak  opening 
has  been  spared,  and  every  such  section  has  been  long 
occupied.  But  the  farmer  manages  to  procure  wood  from 
far,  puts  up  a  rail  fence,  and  at  once  the  seeds  sprout  and 
the  oaks  rise.  It  was  only  browsing  and  fire  which  had 
kept  them  down.  Plant  fruit-trees  by  the  roadside,  and 
their  fruit  will  never  be  allowed  to  ripen.  Draw  a  pine 
fence  about  them,  and  for  fifty  years  they  mature  for  the 


FARMING.  121 

owner  their  delicate  fruit.     There  is  a  great  deal  of  en 
chantment  in  a  chestnut  rail  or  picketed  pine  boards. 

Nature  suggests  every  economical  expedient  some 
where  on  a  great  scale.  Set  out  a  pine-tree,  and  it  dies 
in  the  first  year,  or  lives  a  poor  spindle.  But  Nature 
drops  a  pine-cone  in  Mariposa,  and  it  lives  fifteen  centu 
ries,  grows  three  or  four  hundred  feet  high,  and  thirty 
in  diameter,  —  grows  in  a  grove  of  giants,  like  a  colon 
nade  of  Thebes.  Ask  the  tree  how  it  was  done.  It  did 
not  grow  on  a  ridge,  but  in  a  basin,  where  it  found  deep 
soil,  cold  enough  and  dry  enough  for  the  pine  ;  defended 
itself  from  the  sun  by  growing  in  groves,  and  from  the 
wind  by  the  walls  of  the  mountain.  The  roots  that  shot 
deepest,  and  the  stems  of  happiest  exposure,  drew  the 
nourishment  from  the  rest,  until  the  less  thrifty  perished 
and  manured  the  soil  for  the  stronger,  and  the  mammoth 
Sequoias  rose  to  their  enormous  proportions.  The  trav 
eller  who  saw  them  remembered  his  orchard  at  home, 
where  every  year,  in  the  destroying  wind,  his  forlorn 
trees  pined  like  suffering  virtue.  In  September,  when 
the  pears  hang  heaviest,  and  are  taking  from  the  sun 
their  gay  colors,  comes  usually  a  gusty  day  which  shakes 
the  whole  garden,  and  throws  down  the  heaviest  fruit  in 
bruised  heaps.  The  planter  took  the  hint  of  the  Se 
quoias,  built  a  high  wall,  or  —  better  —  surrounded  the 
orchard  with  a  nursery  of  birches  and  evergreens.  Thus 
he  had  the  mountain  basin  in  miniature  ;  and  his  pears 
grew  to  the  size  of  melons,  and  the  vines  beneath  them 
ran  an  eighth  of  a  mile.  But  this  shelter  creates  a  new 
climate.  The  wall  that  keeps  off  the  strong  wind  keeps 
off  the  cold  wind.  The  high  wall  reflecting  the  heat 


FARMING. 

back  on  the  soil  gives  that  acre  a  quadruple  share  of  suii- 
shiiie, 

"  Enclosing  in  the  garden  square 
A  dead  and  standing  pool  of  air," 

and  makes  a  little  Cuba  within  it,  whilst  all  without  is 
Labrador. 

The  chemist  comes  to  his  aid  every  year  by  following 
out  some  new  hint  drawn  from  nature,  and  now  affirms 
that  this  dreary  space  occupied  by  the  farmer  is  needless : 
he  will  concentrate  his  kitchen-garden  into  a  box  of  one 
or  two  rods  square,  will  take  the  roots  into  his  labora 
tory  ;  the  vines  and  stalks  and  stems  may  go  sprawling 
about  in  the  fields  outside,  he  will  attend  to  the  roots 
in  his  tub,  gorge  them  with  food  that  is  good  for  them. 
The  smaller  his  garden,  the  better  he  can  feed  it,  and  the 
larger  the  crop.  As  he  nursed  his  Thanksgiving  turkeys 
on  bread  and  milk,  so  he  will  pamper  his  peaches  and 
grapes  on  the  viands  they  like  best.  If  they  have  an 
appetite  for  potash,  or  salt,  or  iron,  or  ground  bones,  or 
even  now  and  then  for  a  dead  hog,  he  will  indulge  them. 
They  keep  the  secret  well,  and  never  tell  on  your  table 
whence  they  drew  their  sunset  complexion  or  their  deli 
cate  flavors. 

See  what  the  farmer  accomplishes  by  a  cartload  of 
tiles :  he  alters  the  climate  by  letting  off  water  which 
kept  the  land  cold  through  constant  evaporation,  and 
allows  the  warm  rain  to  bring  down  into  the  roots  the 
temperature  of  the  air  and  of  the  surface-soil;  and  he 
deepens  the  soil,  since  the  discharge  of  this  standing 
water  allows  the  roots  of  his  plants  to  penetrate  below 
the  surface  to  the  subsoil,  and  accelerates  the  ripening  of 


FARMING.  123 

the  crop.  The  town  of  Concord  is  one  of  the  oldest  towns 
in  this  country,  far  on  now  in  its  third  century.  The  se 
lectmen  have  once  in  every  five  years  perambulated  the 
boundaries,  and  yet,  in  this  very  year,  a  large  quantify  of 
land  has  been  discovered  and  added  to  the  town  without 
a  murmur  of  complaint  from  any  quarter.  By  drainage 
we  went  down  to  a  subsoil  we  did  not  know,  and  have 
found  there  is  a  Concord  under  old  Concord,  which  we 
are  now  getting  the  best  crops  from  ;  a  Middlesex  under 
Middlesex ;  and,  in  fine,  that  Massachusetts  has  a  base 
ment  story  more  valuable,  and  that  promises  to  pay  a  bet 
ter  rent,  than  all  the  superstructure.  But  these  tiles  have 
acquired  by  association  a  new  interest.  These  tiles  are 
political  economists,  confuters  of  Malthus  and  Ilicardo ; 
they  are  so  many  Young  Americans  announcing  a  better 
era,  —  more  bread.  They  drain  the  land,  make  it  sweet 
and  friable ;  have  made  English  Chat  Moss  a  garden,  and 
will  now  do  as  much  for  the  Dismal  Swamp.  But  be 
yond  this  benefit,  they  are  the  text  of  better  opinions  and 
better  auguries  for  mankind. 

There  lias  been  a  nightmare  bred  in  England  of  in 
digestion  and  spleen  among  landlords  and  loomlords, 
namely,  the  dogma  that  men  breed  too  fast  for  the  pow 
ers  of  the  soil ;  that  men  multiply  in  a  geometrical  ratio, 
whilst  corn  only  in  an  arithmetical;  and  hence  that,  the 
more  prosperous  we  are,  the  faster  we  approach  these 
frightful  limits  :  nay,  the  plight  of  every  new  generation 
is  worse  than  of  the  foregoing,  because  the  first  comers 
take  up  the  best  lands ;  the  next,  the  second  best ;  and 
each  succeeding  wave  of  population  is  driven  to  poorer, 
so  that  the  land  is  ever  yielding  less  returns  to  enlarging 


FARMING. 

hosts  of  eaters.  Henry  Carey  of  Philadelphia  replied : 
"  Not  so,  Mr.  Malthas,  but  just  the  opposite  of  so  is  the 
fact." 

The  first  planter,  the  savage,  without  helpers,  without 
tools,  looking  chiefly  to  safety  from  his  enemy,  —  man  or 
beast,  —  takes  poor  land.     The  better  lands  are  loaded 
with  timber,  which  he  cannot  clear ;  they  need  drainage, 
which   he   cannot  attempt.     He  cannot  plough,  or  fell 
trees,  or  drain  the  rich  swamp.     He  is  a  poor  creature ; 
he  scratches  with  a  sharp  stick,  lives  in  a  cave  or  a  hutch, 
has  no  road  but  the  trail  of  the  moose  or  bear ;  he  lives 
on  their  flesh  when  he  can  kill  one,  on  roots  and  fruits 
when  he  cannot.     He  falls,  and  is  lame;  he  coughs,  he 
has  a  stitch  in  his  side,  he  has  a  fever  and  chills  :  when 
lie  is  hungry,  he  cannot  always  kill  and  eat  a  bear ;  — 
chances  of  war,  —  sometimes  the  bear  eats  him.     'T  is 
long   before   he   digs  or  plants  at  all,  and  then  only  a 
patch.     Later  he  learns  that  his  planting  is  better  than 
hunting;  that  the  earth  works  faster  for  him  than  he  can 
work   for  himself,  —  works  for  him  when  he  is  asleep, 
when  it  rains,  when  heat  overcomes  him.    The  sunstroke 
which   knocks  him  down  brings  his  corn  up.     As  his 
family  thrive,  and  other  planters  come  up  around  him, 
he  begins  to  fell  trees,  and  clear  good  land ;  and  when, 
by  and  by,  there  is  more  skill,  and  tools  and  roads,  the 
new  generations  are  strong  enough  to  open  the  lowlands, 
where  the  wash  of  mountains  has  accumulated  the  best 
soil,  which  yield  a  hundred-fold  the  former  crops.     The 
last  lands  are  the  best  lands.     It  needs  science  and  great 
numbers  to  cultivate  the  best  lands,  and  in  the  best  man 
ner.     Thus  true  political  economy  is  not  mean,  but  lib- 


FARMING.  125 

eral,  and  on  the  pattern  of  the  sun  and  sky.  Population 
increases  in  the  ratio  of  morality :  credit  exists  in  the 
ratio  of  morality. 

Meantime  we  cannot  enumerate  the  incidents  and 
agents  of  the  farm  without  reverting  to  their  influence 
on  the  farmer.  He  carries  out  this  cumulative  prepara 
tion  of  means  to  their  last  effect.  This  crust  of  soil 
which  ages  have  refined  he  refines  again  for  the  feeding 
of  a  civil  and  instructed  people.  The  great  elements  with 
which  he  deals  cannot  leave  him  unaffected,  or  uncon 
scious  of  his  ministry ;  but  their  influence  somewhat 
resembles  that  which  the  same  Nature  has  on  the  child, 

—  of  subduing  and  silencing  him.     We  see  the  farmer 
with  pleasure  and  respect,  when  we  think  what  powers 
and  utilities  are  so  meekly  worn.    He  knows  every  secret 
of  labor  :  he  changes  the  face  of  the  landscape.    Put  him 
on  a  new  planet,  and  he  would  know  where  to  begin ; 
yet  there  is  no  arrogance  in  his  bearing;  but  a  perfect 
gentleness.    The  farmer  stands  well  on  the  world.    Plain 
in  manners  as  in  dress,  he  would  not  shine  in  palaces ; 
he  is  absolutely  unknown  and  inadmissible  therein ;  liv 
ing  or  dying,  he  never  shall  be  heard  of  in  them  ;  yet  the 
drawing-room  heroes  put  down  beside  him  would  shrivel 
in  his  presence,  —  he  solid  and  unexpressive,  they  ex 
pressed  to  gold-leaf.     But  he  stands  well  on  the  world, 

—  as  Adam  did,  as  an  Indian  docs,  as  Homer's  heroes, 
Agamemnon  or  Achilles,  do.     He  is  a  person  whom  a 
poet  of  any  clime  —  Milton,  Firdusi,  or  Cervantes  — 
would  appreciate   as  being  really  a  piece   of  the   old 
Nature,    comparable    to   sun   and   moon,   rainbow   and 
flood ;  because  he  is,  as  all  natural  persons  are,  repre 
sentative  of  Nature  as  much  as  these. 


126  FARMING. 

That  uncorruptcd  behavior  which  we  admire  in  ani 
mals  and  in  young  children  belongs  to  him,  to  the  hunt 
er,  the  sailor,  —  the  man  who  lives  in  the  presence  of 
Nature.  Cities  force  growth,  and  make  men  talkative 
and  entertaining,  but  they  make  them  artificial.  What 
possesses  interest  for  us  is  the  naturel  of  each,  his  consti 
tutional  excellence.  This  is  forever  a  surprise,  engaging 
and  lovely ;  we  cannot  be  satiated  with  knowing  it,  and 
about  it ;  and  it  is  this  which  the  conversation  with  Na 
ture  cherishes  and  guards. 


WORKS    AND    DAYS. 


WOEKS   AND   DAYS. 


OUR  niiieteentli  century  is  the  age  of  tools.  They  grow 
out  of  our  structure.  "  Man  is  the  meter  of  all  things," 
said  Aristotle ;  "  the  hand  is  the  instrument  of  instru 
ments,  and  the  mind  is  the  form  of  forms."  The  human 
body  is  the  magazine  of  inventions,  the  patent-office, 
where  are  the  models  from  which  every  hint  was  taken. 
All  the  tools  and  engines  on  earth  are  only  extensions  of 
its  limbs  and  senses.  One  definition  of  man  is  "  an  intel 
ligence  served  by  organs."  Machines  can  only  second, 
not  supply,  his  unaided  senses.  The  body  is  a  meter. 
The  eye  appreciates  finer  differences  than  art  can  expose. 
The  apprentice  clings  to  his  foot-rule,  a  practised  mechan 
ic  will  measure  by  his  thumb  and  his  arm  with  equal  pre 
cision  ;  and  a  good  surveyor  will  pace  sixteen  rods  more 
accurately  than  another  man  can  measure  them  by  tape. 
The  sympathy  of  eye  and  hand  by  which  an  Indian  or  a 
practised  slinger  hits  his  mark  with  a  stone,  or  a  wood- 
chopper  or  a  carpenter  swings  his  axe  to  a  hair-line  on 
liis  log,  are  examples;  and  there  is  no  sense  or  organ 
which  is  not  capable  of  exquisite  performance. 

Men  love  to  wonder,  and  that  is  the  seed  of  our 
science ;  and  such  is  the  mechanical  determination  of  our 
age,  and  so  recent  are  our  best  contrivances,  that  use  has 
G*  i 


130  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

not  dulled  our  joy  and  pride  in  them ;  and  we  pity  our 
fathers  for  dying  before  steam  and  galvanism,  sulphuric 
ether  and  ocean  telegraphs,  photograph  and  spectroscope 
arrived,  as  cheated  out  of  half  their  human  estate.  These 
arts  open  great  gates  of  a  future,  promising  to  make  the 
world  plastic  and  to  lift  human  life  out  of  its  beggary  to 
a  godlike  ease  and  power. 

Our  century,  to  be  sure,  had  inherited  a  tolerable  appa 
ratus.  We  had  the  compass,  the  printing-press,  watches, 
the  spiral  spring,  the  barometer,  the  telescope.  Yet  so 
many  inventions  have  been  added,  that  life  seems  almost 
made  over  new ;  and  as  Leibnitz  said  of  Newton,  "  that 
if  he  reckoned  all  that  had  been  done  by  mathematicians 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world  down  to  Newton,  and 
what  had  been  done  by  him,  his  would  be  the  better  half," 
so  one  might  say  that  the  inventions  of  the  last  fifty  years 
counterpoise  those  of  the  fifty  centuries  before  them. 
For  the  vast  production  and  manifold  application  of  iron 
is  new ;  and  our  common  and  indispensable  utensils  of 
house  and  farm  are  new  ;  the  sewing-machine,  the  power- 
loom,  the  McCormick  reaper,  the  mowing-machines,  gas 
light,  lucifer  matches,  and  the  immense  productions  of  the 
laboratory,  are  new  in  this  century,  and  one  franc's  worth 
of  coal  does  the  work  of  a  laborer  for  twenty  days. 

Why  need  I  speak  of  steam,  the  enemy  of  space  and 
time,  with  its  enormous  strength  and  delicate  applica 
bility,  which  is  made  in  hospitals  to  bring  a  bowl  of  gruel 
to  a  sick  man's  bed,  and  can  twist  beams  of  iron  like 
candy-braids,  and  vies  with  the  forces  which  upheaved 
and  doubled  over  the  geologic  strata  ?  Steam  is  an  apt 
scholar  and  a  strong-shouldered  fellow,  but  it  has  not  yet 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  131 

done  all  its  work.  It  already  walks  about  tlie  field  like 
a  man,  and  will  do  anything  required  of  it.  It  irrigates 
crops,  and  drags  away  a  mountain.  It  must  sew  our 
shirts,  it  must  drive  our  gigs ;  taught  by  Mr.  Babbage,  it 
must  calculate  interest  and  logarithms.  Lord  Chancellor 
Th urlow  thought  it  might  be  made  to  draw  bills  and  an 
swers  in  chancery.  If  that  were  satire,  it  is  yet  coming 
to  render  many  higher  services  of  a  mechanico-intellec- 
tual  kind,  and  will  leave  the  satire  short  of  the  fact. 

How  excellent  are  the  mechanical  aids  we  have  applied 
to  the  human  body,  as  in  dentistry,  in  vaccination,  in  the 
rhinoplastic  treatment;  in  the  beautiful  aid  of  ether, 
like  a  finer  sleep ;  and  in  the  boldest  promiser  of  all,  — 
the  transfusion  of  the  blood,  —  which,  in  Paris,  it  was 
claimed,  enables  a  man  to  change  his  blood  as  often  as 
his  linen ! 

What  of  this  dapper  caoutchouc  and  gutta-percha, 
which  make  water-pipes  and  stomach-pumps,  belting  for 
mill-wheels,  and  diving-bells,  and  rain-proof  coats  for  all 
climates,  which  teach  us  to  defy  the  wet,  and  put  every  man 
on  a  footing  with  the  beaver  and  the  crocodile  ?  What 
of  the  grand  tools  with  which  we  engineer,  like  kobolds 
and  enchanters,  —  tunnelling  Alps,  canalling  the  Ameri 
can  Isthmus,  piercing  the  Arabian  desert?  In  Massa 
chusetts,  we  fight  the  sea  successfully  with  beach-grass 
and  broom, —  and  the  blowing  sand-barrens  with  pine 
plantations.  The  soil  of  Holland,  once  the  most  popu 
lous  in  Europe,  is  below  the  level  of  the  sea.  Egypt, 
where  no  rain  fell  for  three  thousand  years,  now,  it  is 
said,  thanks  Mehemet  Ali's  irrigations  and  planted  for 
ests  for  late-returning  showers.  The  old  Hebrew  king 


WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

said,  "He  makes  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise  him."  And 
there  is  no  argument  of  theism  better  than  the  grandeur 
of  ends  brought  about  by  paltry  means.  The  chain  of 
Western  railroads  from  Chicago  to  the  Pacific  has  planted 
cities  and  civilization  in  less  time  than  it  costs  to  bring 
an  orchard  into  bearing. 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  ocean  telegraph,  that  exten 
sion  of  the  eye  and  ear,  whose  sudden  performance  as 
tonished  mankind  as  if  the  intellect  were  taking  the  brute 
earth  itself  into  training,  and  shooting  the  first  thrills  of 
life  and  thought  through  the  unwilling  brain  ? 

There  does  not  seem  any  limit  to  these  new  informa 
tions  of  the  same  Spirit  that  made  the  elements  at  first, 
and  now,  through  man,  works  them.  Art  and  power  will 
go  on  as  they  have  done,  — will  make  day  out  of  night, 
time  out  of  space,  and  space  out  of  lime. 

Invention  breeds  invention.  No  sooner  is  the  electric 
telegraph  devised,  than  gutta-percha,  the  very  material 
it  requires,  is  found.  The  aeronaut  is  provided  with  gun- 
cotton,  the  very  fuel  he  wants  for  his  balloon.  When 
commerce  is  vastly  enlarged,  California  and  Australia  ex 
pose  the  gold  it  needs.  When  Europe  is  over-populated, 
America  and  Australia  crave  to  be  peopled ;  and  so, 
throughout,  every  chance  is  timed,  as  if  Nature,  who 
made  the  lock,  knew  where  to  find  the  key. 

Another  result  of  our  arts  is  the  new  intercourse  which 
is  surprising  us  with  new  solutions  of  the  embarrassing 
political  problems.  The  intercourse  is  not  new,  but  the 
scale  is  new.  Our  selfishness  would  have  held  slaves,  or 
would  have  excluded  from  a  quarter  of  the  planet  all  that 
are  not  born  on  the  soil  of  that  quarter.  Our  politics 


WOIIKS    AND    DAYS.  133 

arc  disgusting  ;  but  what  can  they  help  or  hinder  when 
from  time  to  time  the  primal  instincts  are  impressed  on 
masses  of  mankind,  when  the  nations  are  in  exodus  and 
flux  ?  Nature  loves  to  cross  her  stocks,  —  and  German, 
Chinese,  Turk,  Russ,  and  Kanaka  were  putting  out  to 
sea,  and  intermarrying  race  with  race;  and  commerce 
took  the  hint,  and  ships  were  built  capacious  enough  to 
carry  the  people  of  a  county. 

This  thousand-handed  art  has  introduced  a  new  ele 
ment  into  the  state.  The  science  of  power  is  forced  to 
remember  the  power  of  science.  Civilization  mounts  and 
climbs.  Malthus,  when  he  stated  that  the  mouths  went 
on  multiplying  geometrically,  and  the  food  only  arithmet 
ically,  forgot  to  say  that  the  human  mind  was  also  a  fac 
tor  in  political  economy,  and  that  the  augmenting  wants 
of  society  would  be  met  by  an  augmenting  power  of  in 
vention. 

Yes,  we  have  a  pretty  artillery  of  tools  now  in  our 
social  arrangements  :  we  ride  four  times  as  fast  as  our 
fathers  did ;  travel,  grind,  weave,  forge,  plant,  till,  and 
excavate  better.  We  have  new  shoes,  gloves,  glasses, 
and  gimlets ;  we  have  the  calculus ;  we  have  the  news 
paper,  which  does  its  best  to  make  every  square  acre  of 
land  and  sea  give  an  account  of  itself  at  your  breakfast- 
table  ;  we  have  money,  and  paper  money ;  we  have  lan 
guage,  —  the  finest  tool  of  all,  and  nearest  to  the  mind. 
Much  will  have  more.  Man  flatters  himself  that  his 
command  over  nature  must  increase.  Things  begin  to 
obey  him.  We  are  to  have  the  balloon  yet,  and  the  next 
war  will  be  fought  in  the  air.  We  may  yet  find  a  rose- 
water  that  will  wash  the  negro  white.  He  sees  the  skull 


134*  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

of  the  English  race  changing  from  its  Saxon  type  under 
the  exigencies  of  American  life. 

Tantalus,  who  in  old  times  was  seen  vainly  trying  to 
quench  his  thirst  with  a  flowing  stream,  which  ebbed 
whenever  he  approached  it,  has  been  seen  again  lately. 
He  is  in  Paris,  in  New  York,  in  Boston.  He  is  now  in 
great  spirits ;  thinks  he  shall  reach  it  yet ;  thinks  he  shall 
bottle  the  wave.  It  is,  however,  getting  a  little  doubt 
ful.  Things  have  an  ugly  look  still.  No  matter  how 
many  centuries  of  culture  have  preceded,  the  new  man 
always  finds  himself  standing  on  the  brink  of  chaos, 
always  in  a  crisis.  Can  anybody  remember  when  the 
times  were  not  hard,  and  money  not  scarce  ?  Can  any 
body  remember  when  sensible  men,  and  the  right  sort  of 
men,  and  the  right  sort  of  women,  were  plentiful  ?  Tan 
talus  begins  to  think  steam  a  delusion,  and  galvanism  no 
better  than  it  should  be. 

Many  facts  concur  to  show  that  we  must  look  deeper 
for  our  salvation  than  to  steam,  photographs,  balloons, 
or  astronomy.  These  tools  have  some  questionable  prop 
erties.  They  are  reagents.  Machinery  is  aggressive. 
The  weaver  becomes  a  web,  the  machinist  a  machine. 
If  you  do  not  use  the  tools,  they  use  you.  All  tools  are 
in  one  sense  edge-tools,  and  dangerous.  A  man  builds 
a  fine  house ;  and  now  he  has  a  master,  and  a  task  for 
life :  he  is  to  furnish,  watch,  show  it,  and  keep  it  in  re 
pair,  the  rest  of  his  days.  A  man  has  a  reputation,  and 
is  no  longer  free,  but  must  respect  that.  A  man  makes 
a  picture  or  a  book,  and,  if  it  succeeds,  't  is  often  the 
worse  for  him.  I  saw  a  brave  man  the  other  day,  hith 
erto  as  free  as  the  hawk  or  the  fox  of  the  wilderness, 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  135 

constructing  his  cabinet  of  drawers  for  shells,  eggs,  min 
erals,  and  mounted  birds.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
was  amusing  himself  with  making  pretty  links  for  his 
own  limbs. 

Then  the  political  economist  thinks  "  't  is  doubtful  if 
all  the  mechanical  inventions  that  ever  existed  have 
lightened  the  day's  toil  of  one  human  being."  The  ma 
chine  unmakes  the  man.  Now  that  the  machine  is  so 
perfect,  the  engineer  is  nobody.  Every  new  step  in  im 
proving  the  engine  restricts  one  more  act  of  the  engi 
neer, —  unteaches  him.  Once  it  took  Archimedes ;  now 
it  only  needs  a  fireman,  and  a  boy  to  know  the  coppers, 
to  pull  up  the  handles  or  mind  the  water-tank.  But 
when  the  engine  breaks,  they  can  do  nothing. 

What  sickening  details  in  the  daily  journals  !  I  be 
lieve  they  have  ceased  to  publish  the  "  Newgate  Calen 
dar"  and  the  "Pirate's  Own  Book"  since  the  family 
newspapers,  namely,  the  New  York  Tribune  and  the 
London  Times,  have  quite  superseded  them  in  the  fresh 
ness,  as  well  as  the  horror,  of  their  records  of  crime. 
Politics  were  never  more  corrupt  and  brutal ;  and  Trade, 
that  pride  and  darling  of  our.  ocean,  that  educator  of  na 
tions,  that  benefactor  in  spite  of  itself,  ends  in  shameful 
defaulting,  bubble,  and  bankruptcy,  all  over  the  world. 

Of  course,  we  resort  to  the  enumeration  of  his  arts 
and  inventions  as  a  measure  of  the  worth  of  man.  But 
if,  with  all  his  arts,  he  is  a  felon,  we  cannot  assume  the 
mechanical  skill  or  chemical  resources  as  the  measure  of 
worth.  Let  us  try  another  gauge. 

What  have  these  arts  done  for  the  character,  for  the 
worth  of  mankind '?  Are  men  better  ?  'T  is  sometimes 


136  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

questioned  whether  morals  have  not  declined  as  the  arts 
have  ascended.  Here  are  great  arts  and  little  men. 
Here  is  greatness  begotten  of  paltriness.  We  cannot 
trace  the  triumphs  of  civilization  to  such  benefactors  as 
we  wish.  The  greatest  meliorator  of  the  world  is  selfish, 
huckstering  Trade.  Every  victory  over  matter  ought  to 
recommend  to  man  the  worth  of  his  nature.  But  now 
one  wonders  who  did  all  this  good.  Look  up  the  invent 
ors.  Each  has  his  own  knack ;  his  genius  is  in  veins  and 
spots.  But  the  great,  equal,  symmetrical  brain,  fed  from 
a  great  heart,  you  shall  not  find.  Every  one  has  more  to 
hide  than  he  has  to  show,  or  is  lamed  by  his  excellence. 
'T  is  too  plain  that  with  the  material  power  the  moral 
progress  has  not  kept  pace.  It  appears  that  we  have 
not  made  a  judicious  investment.  Works  and  days  were 
offered  us,  and  we  took  works. 

The  new  study  of  the  Sanskrit  has  shown  us  the  origin 
of  the  old  names  of  God,  —  Dyaus,  Deus,  Zeus,  Zeu 
pater,  Jupiter,  —  names  of  the  sun,  still  recognizable 
through  the  modifications  of  our  vernacular  words, 
importing  that  the  Day  is  the  Divine  Power  and  Mani 
festation,  and  indicating  that  those  ancient  men,  in  their 
attempts  to  express  the  Supreme  Power  of  the  universe, 
called  him  the  Day,  and  that  this  name  was  accepted  by 
all  the  tribes. 

Hesiod  wrote  a  poem  which  he  called  "  Works  and 
Days,"  in  which  he  marked  the  changes  of  the  Greek 
year,  instructing  the  husbandman  at  the  rising  of  what 
constellation  he  might  safely  sow,  when  to  reap,  when  to 
gather  wood,  when  the  sailor  might  launch  his  boat  in 
security  from  storms,  and  what  admonitions  of  the  plan- 


WORKS    AND    DATS.  137 

ets  lie  must  heed.  It  is  full  of  economies  for  Grecian 
life,  noting  the  proper  age  for  marriage,  the  rules  of 
household  thrift,  and  of  hospitality.  The  poem  is  full  of 
piety  as  well  as  prudence,  and  is  adapted  to  all  meridians, 
by  adding  the  ethics  of  works  and  of  days.  But  he  has 
not  pushed  his  study  of  days  into  such  inquiry  and  analy 
sis  as  they  invite. 

A  farmer  said  "he  should  like  to  have  all  the  land  that 
joined  his  own."  Bonaparte,  who  had  the  same  appetite, 
endeavored  to  make  the  Mediterranean  a  French  lake. 
Czar  Alexander  was  more  expansive,  and  wished  to  call 
the  Pacific  my  ocean  ;  and  the  Americans  were  obliged  to 
resist  his  attempts  to  make  it  a  close  sea.  But  if  he  had 
the  earth  for  his  pasture,  and  the  sea  for  his  pond,  he 
would  be  a  pauper  still.  He  only  is  rich  who  owns  the 
day.  There  is  no  king,  rich  man,  fairy,  or  demon  who 
possesses  such  power  as  that.  The  days  are  ever  divine 
as  to  the  first  Aryans.  They  are  of  the  least  pretension, 
and  of  the  greatest  capacity,  of  anything  that  exists. 
They  come  and  go  like  muffled  and  veiled  figures,  sent 
from  a  distant  friendly  party ;  but  they  say  nothing ;  and 
if  we  do  not  use  the  gifts  they  bring,  they  carry  them  as 
silently  away. 

How  the  day  fits  itself  to  the  mind,  winds  itself  round 
it  like  a  fine  drapery,  clothing  all  its  fancies  !  Any  holi 
day  communicates  to  us  its  color.  We  wear  its  cockade 
and  favors  in  our  humor.  Remember  what  boys  think 
in  the  morning  of  "  Election  day,"  of  the  Fourth  of  July, 
of  Thanksgiving  or  Christmas.  The  very  stars  in  their 
courses  wink  to  them  of  nuts  and  cakes,  bonbons,  pres 
ents,  and  lire-works.  Cannot  memory  still  descry  the  old 


138  WOIIKS    AND    DAYS. 

school-house  and  its  porch,  somewhat  hacked  by  jack- 
knives,  where  you  spun  tops  and  snapped  marbles  ;  and 
do  you  not  recall  that  life  was  then  calendared  by  mo 
ments,  threw  itself  into  nervous  knots  or  glittering  hours, 
even  as  now,  and  not  spread  itself  abroad  an  equable 
felicity  ?  In  college  terms,  and  in  years  that  followed, 
the  young  graduate,  when  the  Commencement  anniver 
sary  returned,  though  he  were  in  a  swamp,  would  see  a 
festive  light,  and  find  the  air  faintly  echoing  with  plau- 
sive  academic  thunders.  In  solitude  and  in  the  coun 
try,  what  dignity  distinguishes  the  holy  time  !  The  old 
Sabbath,  or  Seventh  Day,  white  with  the  religions  of 
unknown  thousands  of  years,  when  this  hallowed  hour 
dawns  out  of  the  deep,  —  a  clean  page,  which  the  wise 
may  inscribe  with  truth,  whilst  the  savage  scrawls  it 
with  fetishes,  —  the  cathedral  music  of  history  breathes 
through  it  a  psalm  to  our  solitude. 

So,  in  the  common  experience  of  the  scholar,  the 
weathers  fit  his  moods.  A  thousand  tunes  the  variable 
wind  plays,  a  thousand  spectacles  it  brings,  and  each  is 
the  frame  or  dwelling  of  a  new  spirit.  I  used  formerly 
to  choose  my  time  with  some  nicety  for  each  favorite 
book.  One  author  is  good  for  winter,  and  one  for  the 
dog-days.  The  scholar  must  look  long  for  the  right  hour 
for  Plato's  Tima^us.  At  last  the  elect  morning  arrives, 
the  early  dawn, — a  few  lights  conspicuous  in  the  heaven, 
as  of  a  world  just  created  and  still  becoming,  —  and  in 
its  wide  leisures  we  dare  open  that  book. 

There  are  days  when  the  great  are  near  us,  when  there 
is  no  frown  on  their  brow,  no  condescension  even  ;  when 
they  take  us  by  the  hand,  and  we  share  their  thought. 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  139 

There  are  days  which  are  the  carnival  of  the  year. 
The  angels  assume  flesh,  and  repeatedly  become  visi 
ble.  The  imagination  of  the  gods  is  excited,  and  rushes 
on  every  side  into  forms.  Yesterday  not  a  bird  peeped  ; 
the  world  was  barren,  peaked,  and  pining :  to-day  't  is 
inconceivably  populous;  creation  swarms  and  melio 
rates. 

The  days  are  made  on  a  loom  whereof  the  warp  and 
woof  are  past  and  future  time.  They  are  majestically 
dressed,  as  if  every  god  brought  a  thread  to  the  skyey 
web.  'T  is  pitiful  the  things  by  which  we  are  rich  or 
poor,  —  a  matter  of  coins,  coats,  and  carpets,  a  little 
more  or  less  stone,  or  wood,  or  paint,  the  fashion  of  a 
cloak  or  hat ;  like  the  luck  of  naked  Indians,  of  whom 
one  is  proud  in  the  possession  of  a  glass  bead  or  a  red 
feather,  and  the  rest  miserable  in  the  want  of  it.  But 
the  treasures  which  Nature  spent  itself  to  amass,  —  the 
secular,  refined,  composite  anatomy  of  man,  —  which  all 
strata  go  to  form,  which  the  prior  races,  from  infusory 
and  saurian,  existed  to  ripen ;  the  surrounding  plastic 
natures ;  the  earth  with  its  foods  ;  the  intellectual,  tem- 
peramentiug  air ;  the  sea  with  its  invitations ;  the  heaven 
deep  with  worlds ;  and  the  answering  brain  and  nervous 
structure  replying  to  these;  the  eye  that  looketh  into  the 
deeps,  which  again  look  back  to  the  eye,  —  abyss  to 
abyss  ;  —  these,  not  like  a  glass  bead,  or  the  coins  or 
carpets,  are  given  immeasurably  to  all. 

This  miracle  is  hurled  into  every  beggar's  hands.  The 
blue  sky  is  a  covering  for  a  market,  and  for  the  cherubim 
and  seraphim.  The  sky  is  the  varnish  or  glory  with 
which  the  Artist  has  washed  the  whole  work,  —  the  verge 


140  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

or  confines  of  matter  and  spirit.  Nature  could  no  further 
go.  Could  our  happiest  dream  come  to  pass  in  solid 
fact,  —  could  a  power  open  our  eyes  to  behold  "millions 
of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earfh,"—  I  believe  I 
should  find  that  mid-plain  on  which  they  moved  floored 
beneath  and  arched  above  with  the  same  web  of  blue 
depth  which  weaves  itself  over  me  now,  as  I  trudge  the 
streets  on  my  affairs. 

'Tis  singular  that  our  rich  English  language  should 
have  no  word  to  denote  the  face  of  the  world.  Kinde 
was  the  old  English  term,  which,  however,  filled  only 
half  the  range  of  our  fine  Latin  word,  with  its  delicate 
future  tense,  —  natura,  about  to  be  bom,  or  what  Ger 
man  philosophy  denotes  as  a  becoming.  But  nothing 
expresses  that  power  which  seems  to  work  for  beauty 
alone.  The  Greek  Kosmos  did;  and,  therefore,  with 
great  propriety,  Humboldt  entitles  his  book,  which  re 
counts  the  last  results  of  science,  Cosmos. 

Such  are  the  days, — the  earth  is  the  cup,  the  sky 
is  the  cover,  of  the  immense  bounty  of  nature  which  is 
offered  us  for  our  daily  aliment ;  but  what  a  force  of  illu 
sion  begins  life  with  us,  and  attends  us  to  the  end !  We 
are  coaxed,  flattered,  and  duped,  from  morn  to  eve,  from 
birth  to  death  ;  and  where  is  the  old  eye  that  ever  saw 
through  the  deception?  The  Hindoos  represent  Maia, 
the  illusory  energy  of  Vishnu,  as  one  of  his  principal 
attributes.  As  if,  in  this  gale  of  warring  elements,  which 
life  is,  it  was  necessary  to  bind  souls  to  human  life  as 
mariners  in  a  tempest  lash  themselves  to  the  mast  and 
bulwarks  of  a  ship,  and  Nature  employed  certain  illu 
sions  as  her  ties  and  straps,  —  a  rattle,  a  doll,  an  apple, 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  141 

for  a  child ;  skates,  a  river,  a  boat,  a  horse,  a  gun,  for 
the  growing  boy ;  —  and  I  will  not  begin  to  name  those 
of  the  youth  and  adult,  for  they  are  numberless.  Sel 
dom  and  slowly  the  mask  falls,  and  the  pupil  is  per 
mitted  to  see  that  all  is  one  stuff,  cooked  and  painted 
under  many  counterfeit  appearances.  Hume's  doctrine 
was  that  the  circumstances  vary,  the  amount  of  happi 
ness  does  not;  that  the  beggar  cracking  fleas  in  the 
sunshine  under  a  hedge,  and  the  "duke  rolling  by  in  his 
chariot,  the  girl  equipped  for  her  first  ball,  and  the  ora 
tor  returning  triumphant  from  the  debate,  had  different 
means,  but  the  same  quantity  of  pleasant  excitement. 

This  element  of  illusion  lends  all  its  force  to  hide  the 
values  of  present  time.  Who  is  he  that  does  not  always 
find  himself  doing  something  less  than  his  best  task  ? 
"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  "  0,  nothing  ;  I  have  been  do 
ing  thus  or  shall  do  so  or  so,  but  now  I  am  only  - 
Ah !  poor  dupe,  will  you  never  slip  out  of  the  web  of 
the  master  juggler,  —  never  learn  that,  as  soon  as  the 
irrecoverable  years  have  woven  their  blue  glory  between 
to-day  and  us,  these  passing  hours  shall  glitter  and  draw 
us,  as  the  wildest  romance  and  the  homes  of  beauty  and 
poetry  ?  How  difficult  to  deal  erect  with  them !  The 
events  they  bring,  their  trade,  entertainments,  and  gos 
sip,  their  urgent  work,  all  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  and 
distract  attention.  He  is  a  strong  man  who  can  look 
them  in  the  eye,  see  through  this  juggle,  feel  their  iden 
tity,  and  keep  his  own ;  who  can  know  surely  that  one 
will  be  like  another  to  the  end  of  the  world,  nor  permit 
love,  or  death,  or  politics,  or  money,  war,  or  pleasure,  to 
draw  him  from  his  task. 


142  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

The  world  is  always  equal  to  itself,  and  every  man  in 
moments  of  deeper  thought  is  apprised  that  he  is  re 
peating  the  experiences  of  the  people  in  the  streets  of 
Thebes  or  Byzantium.  An  everlasting  Now  reigns  in 
nature,  which  hangs  the  same  roses  on  our  bushes  which 
charmed  the  Roman  and  the  Chalducan  in  their  hanging 
gardens.  "  To  what  end,  then,"  he  asks,  "  should  I 
study  languages,  and  traverse  countries,  to  learn  so  sim 
ple  truths  ? " 

History  of  ancient  art,  excavated  cities,  recovery  of 
books  and  inscriptions,  —  yes,  the  works  were  beautiful, 
and  the  history  worth  knowing;  and  academies  convene 
to  settle  the  claims  of  t  he  old  schools.  What  journeys 
and  measurements,  —  Niebuhr  and  Miiller  and  Layard, 
—  to  identify  the  plain  of  Troy  and  Nimroud  town! 
And  your  homage  to  Dante  costs  you  so  much  sailing; 
and  to  ascertain  the  discoverers  of  America  needs  as 
much  voyaging  as  the  discovery  cost.  Poor  child  !  that 
flexile  clay  of  which  these  old  brothers  moulded  their 
admirable  symbols  was  not  Persian,  nor  Memphian,  nor 
Teutonic,  nor  local  at  all,  but  was  common  lime  and 
silcx  and  water,  and  sunlight,  the  heat  of  the  blood,  and 
the  heaving  of  the  lungs ;  it  was  that  clay  which  thou 
heldest  but  now  in  thy  foolish  hands,  and  threwest  away 
to  go  and  seek  in  vain  in  sepulchres,  mummy-pits,  and 
old  book-shops  of  Asia  Minor,  Egypt,  and  England.  It 
Avas  the  deep  to-day  which  all  men  scorn  ;  the  rich  pov 
erty,  which  men  hate ;  the  populous,  all-loving  solitude, 
which  men  quit  for  the  tattle  of  towns.  HE  lurks,  he 
hides,  —  he  who  is  success,  reality,  joy,  and  power.  One 
of  the  illusions  is  that  the  present  hour  is  not  the  criti- 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  143 

cal,  decisive  hour.     Write  it  on  your  heart  that  every 
day  is  the  best  day  in  the  year.     No  man  has  learned 
anything   rightly,    until   he    knows    that   every   day   is 
Doomsday.     'T  is  the  old  secret  of  the  gods  that  they 
come  in  low  disguises.     'T  is  the  vulgar  great  who  come 
dizened  with  gold  and  jewels.      Real  kings  hide  away 
their  crowns  in  their  wardrobes,  and  affect  a  plain  and 
poor  exterior.     In  the  Norse  legend  of  our  ancestors, 
Odin  dwells  in  a  fisher's  hut,  and  patches  a  boat.     In 
the  Hindoo  legends,  Hari  dwells  a  peasant  among  peas 
ants.     In  the  Greek  legend,  Apollo  lodges  with  the  shep 
herds  of  Admetus ;  and  Jove  liked  to  rusticate  among 
the  poor  Ethiopians.     So,  in  our  history,  Jesus  is  born 
in  a  barn,  and  his  twelve  peers  are  fishermen.     'T  is  the 
very  principle  of  science  that  Nature  shows  herself  best 
in  leasts ;  't  was  the  maxim  of  Aristotle  and  Lucretius ; 
and,  in  modern  times,   of  Swedenborg  and   of  Hahne- 
maim.     The  order  of  changes  in  the  egg  determines  the 
age  of  fossil  strata.     So  it  was  the  rule  of  our  poets,  in 
the  legends  of  fairy  lore,  that  the  fairies  largest  in  power 
were  the  least  in  size.     In  the  Christian  graces,  humility 
stands  highest  of  all,  in  the  form  of  the  Madonna ;  and 
in  life,  this  is  the  secret  of  the  wise.     We  owe  to  genius 
always  the  same  debt,  of  lifting  the  curtain  from   the 
common,  and  showing  us  that  divinities  are  sitting  dis 
guised  in  the  seeming  gang  of  gypsies  and  pedlers.     In 
daily  life,  what   distinguishes  the  master   is   the   using 
those  materials  he  has,  instead  of  looking  about  for  what 
are  more  renowned,  or  what  others  have  used  well.     "  A 
general,"  said  Bonaparte,   "always  has  troops  enough, 
if  he  only  knows  how  to  employ  those  he  has,  and  biv- 


144 


WOKKS    AND    DAYS. 


ouacs  with  them."  Do  not  refuse  the  employment  which 
the  hour  brings  you,  for  one  more  ambitious.  The 
highest  heaven  of  wisdom  is  alike  near  from  every  point, 
and  tliou  must  find  it,  if  at  all,  by  methods  native  to  thy 
self  alone. 

That  work  is  ever  the  more  pleasant  to  the  imagina 
tion  which  is  not  now  required.  How  wistfully,  when 
we  have  promised  to  attend  the  working  committee,  we 
look  at  the  distant  hills  and  their  seductions  ! 

The  use  of  history  is  to  give  value  to  the  present  hour 
and  its  duty.  That  is  good  which  commends  to  me  my 
country,  my  climate,  my  means  and  materials,  my  asso 
ciates.  I  knew  a  man  in  a  certain  religious  exaltation, 
who  "  thought  it  an  honor  to  wash  his  own  face."  He 
seemed  to  me  more  sane  than  those  who  hold  themselves 
cheap. 

Zoologists  may  deny  that  horse-hairs  in  the  water 
change  to  worms;  but  I  find  that  whatever  is  old  cor 
rupts,  and  the  past  turns  to  snakes.  The  reverence  for 
the  deeds  of  our  ancestors  is  a  treacherous  sentiment. 
Their  merit  was  not  to  reverence  the  old,  but  to  honor 
the  present  moment ;  and  we  falsely  make  them  excuses 
of  the  very  habit  which  they  hated  and  defied. 

Another  illusion  is,  that  there  is  not  time  enough  for 
our  work.  Yet  we  might  reflect  that  though  many  crea 
tures  eat  from  one  dish,  each,  according  to  its  constitu 
tion,  assimilates  from  the  elements  what  belongs  to  it, 
whether  time,  or  space,  or  light,  or  water,  or  food.  A 
snake  converts  whatever  prey  the  meadow  yields  him 
into  snake  ;  a  fox,  into  fox  ;  and  Peter  and  John  arc 
working  up  all  existence  into  Peter  and  John.  A  poor 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  145 

Indian  chief  of  the  Six  Nations  of  New  York  made  a 
wiser  reply  than  any  philosopher,  to  some  one  complain 
ing  that  he  had  not  enough  time.  "  Well,"  said  Red 
Jacket,  "I  suppose  you  have  all  there  is." 

A  third  illusion  haunts  us,  that  a  long  duration,  as  a 
year,  a  decade,  a  century,  is  valuable.  But  an  old 
French  sentence  says,  "  God  works  in  moments,"  — 
"  En  pen  d'heure  Dieu  labeure"  We  ask  for  long  life, 
but  't  is  deep  life,  or  grand  moments,  that  signify.  Let 
the  measure  of  time  be  spiritual,  not  mechanical.  Life 
is  unnecessarily  long.  Moments  of  insight,  of  fine  per 
sonal  relation,  a  smile,  a  glance,  —  what  ample  borrowers 
of  eternity  they  are  !  Life  culminates  and  concentrates ; 
and  Homer  said,  "  The  gods  ever  give  to  mortals  their 
apportioned  share  of  reason  only  on  one  day." 

I  arn  of  the  opinion  of  the  poet  Wordsworth,  "  that 
there  is  no  real  happiness  in  this  life,  but  in  intellect  and 
virtue."  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  Pliny,  "  that,  whilst  we 
are  musing  on  these  things,  we  are  adding  to  the  length 
of  our  lives."  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  Glauco,  who  said, 
"The  measure  of  life,  0  Socrates,  is,  with  the  wise,  the 
speaking  and  hearing  such  discourses  as  yours." 

He  only  can  enrich  me  who  can  recommend  to  me  the 
space  between  sun  and  sun.  'T  is  the  measure  of  a  man, 
—  his  apprehension  of  a  day.  Tor  we  do  not  listen  with 
the  best  regard  to  the  verses  of  a  man  who  is  only  a  poet, 
nor  to  his  problems,  if  he  is  only  an  algebraist ;  but  if  a 
man  is  at  once  acquainted  with  the  geometric  foundations 
of  things  and  with  their  festal  splendor,  his  poetry  is  exact 
and  his  arithmetic  musical.  And  him  I  reckon  the  most 
learned  scholar,  not  who  can  unearth  for  me  the  buried 
7  J 


146  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

dynasties  of  Scsostris  and  Ptolemy,  the  Sothiac  era,  the 
Olympiads  and  consulships,  but  who  ran  unfold  Ilic 
theory  of  this  particular  Wednesday.  Can  he  uncover 
the  ligaments  concealed  from  all  but  piety,  which  attach 
the  dull  men  and  things  we  know  to  the  First  Cause? 
These  passing  fifteen  minutes,  men  think,  are  time,  not 
eternity ;  are  low  and  subaltern,  are  but  hope  or  mem 
ory,  that  is,  the  way  to  or  the  way  from  welfare,  but  not 
welfare.  Can  he  show  their  tie  ?  That  interpreter  shall 
guide  us  from  a  menial  and  eleemosynary  existence  into 
riches  and  stability.  He  dignifies  the  place  where  he  is. 
This  mendicant  America,  this  curious,  peering,  itinerant, 
imitative  America,  studious  of  Greece  and  Home,  of  Eng 
land  and  Germany,  will  take  off  its  dusty  shoes,  will  take 
off  its  glazed  traveller's-cap,  and  sit  at  home  with  repose 
and  deep  joy  on  its  face.  The  world  has  no  such  land 
scape,  the  icons  of  history  no  such  hour,  the  future  no 
equal  second  opport unity.  Now  let  poets  sing  !  now  let 
arts  unfold ! 

One  more  view  remains.  But  life  is  good  only  when 
it  is  magical  and  musical,  a  perfect  timing  and  consent, 
and  when  we  do  not  anatomize  it.  You  must  treat  the 
days  respectfully,  you  must  be  a  day  yourself,  and  not 
interrogate  it  like  a  college  professor.  The  world  is 
enigmatical,  —  everything  said,  and  everything  known  or 
done,  —  and  must  not  be  taken  literally,  but  genially. 
We  must  be  at  the  top  of  our  condition  to  understand 
anything  rightly.  You  must  hear  the  bird's  song  with 
out  attempting  to  render  it  into  nouns  and  verbs.  Can 
not  we  be  a  little  abstemious  and  obedient  ?  Cannot  we 
let  the  morning  be? 


WORKS    AND    DAYS.  147 

Everything  in  the  universe  goes  by  indirection.  There 
are  no  straight  lines.  I  remember  well  the  foreign 
scholar  who  made  a  week  of  my  youth  happy  by  his 
visit.  "  The  savages  in  the  islands,"  he  said,  "  delight 
to  play  with  the  surf,  coining  in  on  the  top  of  the  rollers, 
then  swimming  out  again,  and  repeat  the  delicious  ma 
noeuvre  for  hours.  Well,  human  life  is  made  up  of  such 
transits.  There  can  be  no  greatness  without  abandon 
ment.  But  here  your  very  astronomy  is  an  espionage. 
I  dare  not  go  out  of  doors  and  see  the  moon  and  stars, 
but  they  seem  to  measure  my  tasks,  to  ask  how  many 
lines  or  pages  are  finished  since  I  saw  them  last.  Not 
so,  as  I  told  you,  was  it  in  Belleisle.  The  days  at  Belle- 
isle  were  all  different,  and  only  joined  by  a  perfect  love 
of  the  same  object.  Just  to  fill  the  hour,  —  that  is  hap 
piness.  Fill  my  hour,  ye  gods,  so  that  I  shall  not  say, 
whilst  I  have  done  this,  '  Behold,  also,  an  hour  of  my 
life  is  gone,'  —but  rather,  '  I  have  lived  an  hour.'  " 

We  do  not  want  factitious  men,  who  can  do  any  liter 
ary  or  professional  feat,  as,  to  write  poems,  or  advocate 
a  cause,  or  carry  a  measure,  for  money ;  or  turn  their 
ability  indifferently  in  any  particular  direction  by  the 
strong  effort  of  will.  No,  what  has  been  best  done 
in  the  world,  —  the  works  of  genius,  —  cost  nothing. 
There  is  no  painful  effort,  but  it  is  the  spontaneous  flow 
ing  of  the  thought.  Shakspeare  made  his  Hamlet  as  a 
bird  weaves  its  nest.  Poems  have  been  written  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  irresponsibly.  Fancy  defines  her 
self: 

"  Forms  that  men  spy 
With  the  half-shut  eye 
la  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  am  I." 


148  WORKS    AND    DAYS. 

The  masters  painted  for  joy,  and  knew  not  that  virtue 
had  gone  out  of  them.  They  could  not  paint  the  like  in 
cold  blood.  The  masters  of  English  lyric  wrote  their 
songs  so.  It  was  a  fine  efflorescence  of  fine  powers ;  as 
was  said  of  the  letters  of  the  Frenchwoman,  —  "  the 
charming  accident  of  their  more  charming  existence." 
Then  the  poet  is  never  the  poorer  for  his  song.  A  song 
is  no  song  unless  the  circumstance  is  free  and  fine.  If 
the  singer  sing  from  a  sense  of  duty  or  from  seeing  no 
way  of  escape,  I  had  rather  have  none.  Those  only  can 
sleep  who  do  not  care  to  sleep  ;  and  those  only  write  or 
speak  best  who  do  not  too  much  respect  the  Meriting  or 
the  speaking. 

The  same  rule  holds  in  science.  The  savant  is  often 
an  amateur.  His  performance  is  a  memoir  to  the  Acad 
emy  on  fish-worms,  tadpoles,  or  spiders'  legs;  he  ob 
serves  as  other  academicians  observe;  he  is  on  stilts 
at  a  microscope,  and  — his  memoir  finished  and  read 
and  printed  —  he  retreats  into  his  routinary  existence, 
which  is  quite  separate  from  his  scientific.  But  in  New 
ton,  science  was  as  easy  as  breathing;  he  used  the  same 
wit  to  weigh  the  moon  that  he  used  to  buckle  his  shoes ; 
and  all  his  life  was  simple,  wise,  and  majestic.  So  was 
it  in  Archimedes,  —  always  selfsame,  like  the  sky.  In 
Linna3iis,  in  Franklin,  the  like  sweetness  and  equality, 
—  no  stilts,  no  tiptoe; — and  their  results  are  whole 
some  and  memorable  to  all  men. 

In  stripping  time  of  its  illusions,  in  seeking  to  find 
what  is  the  heart  of  the  day,  we  come  to  the  quality  of 
the  moment,  and  drop  the  duration  altogether.  It  is 
the  depth  at  which  we  live,  and  not  at  all  the  surface 


WORKS    AND     DAYS.  149 

extension,  that  imports.  We  pierce  to  the  eternity,  of 
which  time  is  the  flitting  surface ;  and,  really,  the  least 
acceleration  of  thought,  and  the  least  increase  of  power 
of  thought,  make  life  to  seem  and  to  be  of  vast  duration. 
We  call  it  time;  but  when  that  acceleration  and  that 
deepening  take  effect,  it  acquires  another  and  a  higher 
name. 

There  are  people  who  do  not  need  much  experiment 
ing  ;  who,  after  years  of  activity,  say,  we  knew  all  this 
before ;  who  love  at  first  sight  and  hate  at  first  sight ; 
discern  the  affinities  and  repulsions  ;  who  do  not  care 
so  much  for  conditions  as  others,  for  they  are  always 
in  one  condition,  and  enjoy  themselves ;  who  dictate  to 
others,  and  are  not  dictated  to ;  who  in  their  conscious 
ness  of  deserving  success  constantly  slight  the  ordinary 
means  of  attaining  it ;  who  have  self-existence  and  self- 
help  ;  who  are  suffered  to  be  themselves  in  society ;  who 
are  great  in  the  present ;  who  have  no  talents,  or  care 
not  to  have  them,  —  being  that  which  was  before  talent, 
and  shall  be  after  it,  and  of  which  talent  seems  only  a 
tool ;  —  this  is  character,  the  highest  name  at  which  phi 
losophy  has  arrived. 

'Tis  not  important  how  the  hero  does  this  or  this, 
but  what  he  is.  What  he  is  will  appear  in  every  gesture 
and  syllable.  In  this  way  the  moment  and  the  character 
are  one. 

'T  is  a  fine  fable  for  the  advantage  of  character  over 
talent,  the  Greek  legend  of  the  strife  of  Jove  and  Phrc- 
bus.  Phoebus  challenged  the  gods,  and  said,  "Who 
will  outshoot  the  far-darting  Apollo  ?  "  Zeus  said,  "  I 
will."  Mars  shook  the  lots  in  his  helmet,  and  that  of 


150  WOEKS    AND    DAYS. 

Apollo  leaped  out  first.  Apollo  stretched  his  bow  and 
shot  his  arrow  into  the  extreme  west.  Then  Zeus  arose, 
and  with  one  stride  cleared  the  whole  distance,  and  said, 
"  Where  shall  I  shoot  ?  there  is  no  space  left."  So  the 
bowman's  prize  was  adjudged  to  him  who  drew  no  bow. 
And  this  is  the  progress  of  every  earnest  mind ;  from 
the  works  of  man  and  the  activity  of  the  hands  to  a 
delight  in  the  faculties  which  rule  them  ;  from  a  respect 
to  the  works  to  a  wise  wonder  at  this  mystic  element  of 
time  in  which  he  is  conditioned ;  from  local  skills  and 
the  economy  which  reckons  the  amount  of  production 
per  hour  to  the  finer  economy  which  respects  the  quality 
of  what  is  done,  and  the  right  we  have  to  the  work,  or 
the  fidelity  with  which  it  flo\f  s  from  ourselves ;  then  to 
the  depth  of  thought  it  betrays,  looking  to  its  universal 
ity,  or,  that  its  roots  are  in  eternity,  not  in  time.  Then 
it  flows  from  character,  that  sublime  health  which  values 
one  moment  as  another,  and  makes  us  great  in  all  con 
ditions,  and  is  the  only  definition  we  have  of  freedom 
and  power. 


BOOKS. 


BOOKS. 


IT  is  easy  to  accuse  books,  and  bad  ones  are  easily 
found  ;  and  the  best  are  but  records,  and  not  the  things 
recorded  ;  and  certainly  there  is  dilettanteism  enough, 
and  books  that  are  merely  neutral  and  do  nothing  for  us. 
In  Plato's  "  Gorgias,"  Socrates  says  :  "  The  shipmaster 
walks  in  a  modest  garb  near  the  sea,  after  bringing  his 
passengers  from  ^Egina  or  from  Pontus,  not  thinking  he 
has  done  anything  extraordinary,  and  certainly  knowing 
that  his  passengers  are  the  same,  and  in  no  respect  bet 
ter  than  when  he  took  them  on  board."  So  is  it  wilh 
books,  for  the  most  part :  they  work  no  redemption  in 
us.  The  bookseller  might  certainly  know  that  his  cus 
tomers  are  in  no  respect  better  for  the  purchase  and 
consumption  of  his  wares.  The  volume  is  dear  at  a 
dollar,  and,  after  reading  to  weariness  the  lettered  backs, 
we  leave  the  shop  with  a  sigh,  and  learn,  as  I  did,  with 
out  surprise,  of  a  surly  bank  director,  that  in  bank  par 
lors  they  estimate  all  stocks  of  this  kind  as  rubbish. 

But  it  is  not  less  true  that  there  are  books  which  are 
of  that  importance  in  a  man's  private  experience,  as  to 
verify  for  him  the  fables  of  Cornelius  Agrippa,  of  Michael 
Scott,  or  of  the  old  Orpheus  of  Thrace,  — books  which 
take  rank  in  our  life  with  parents  and  lovers  and  pas- 
7* 


154  BOOKS. 

sionate  experiences,  so  medicinal,  so  stringent,  so  revo 
lutionary,  so  authoritative,  —  books  which  are  the  work 
and  the  proof  of  faculties  so  comprehensive,  so  nearly 
equal  to  the  world  which  they  paint,  that,  though  one 
shuts  them  with  meaner  ones,  he  feels  his  exclusion 
from  them  to  accuse  his  way  of  living. 

Consider  what  you  have  in  the  smallest  chosen  library. 
A  company  of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  men  that  could  be 
picked  out  of  all  civil  countries,  in  a  thousand  years, 
have  set  in  best  order  the  results  of  their  learning  and 
wisdom.  The  men  themselves  were  hid  and  inacces 
sible,  solitary,  impatient  of  interruption,  fenced  by  eti 
quette  ;  but  the  thought  which  they  did  not  uncover 
to  their  bosom  friend  is  here  written  out  in  transparent 
words  to  us,  the  strangers  of  another  age. 

We  owe  to  books  those  general  benefits  which  come 
from  high  intellectual  action.  Thus,  I  think,  we  often 
owe  to  them  the  perception  of  immortality.  They  impart 
sympathetic  activity  to  the  moral  power.  Go  with  mean 
people,  and  you  think  life  is  mean.  Then  read  Plutarch, 
and  the  world  is  a  proud  place,  peopled  with  men  of  pos 
itive  quality,  with  heroes  and  demigods  standing  around 
us,  who  will  not  let  us  sleep.  Then,  they  address  the 
imagination:  only  poetry  inspires  poetry.  They  become 
the  organic  culture  of  the  time.  College  education  is 
the  reading  of  certain  books  which  the  common-sense 
of  all  scholars  agrees  will  represent  the  science  already 
accumulated.  If  you  know  that,  —  for  instance  in  geome 
try,  if  you  have  read  Euclid  and  Laplace, — your  opin 
ion  has  some  value ;  if  you  do  not  know  these,  you  are 
not  entitled  to  give  any  opinion  on  the  subject.  When- 


BOOKS.  155 

ever  any  sceptic  or  bigot  claims  to  be  heard  on  the  ques 
tions  of  intellect  and  morals,  we  ask  if  lie  is  familiar 
with  the  books  of  Plato,  where  all  -his  pert  objections 
have  once  for  all  been  disposed  of.  If  not,  he  has  no 
right  to  our  time.  Let  him  go  and  find  himself  answered 
there. 

Meantime  the  colleges,  whilst  they  provide  us  with 
libraries,  furnish  no  professor  of  books  ;  and,  I  think, 
no  chair  is  so  much  wanted.  In  a  library  we  are  sur 
rounded  by  many  hundreds  of  dear  friends,  but  they  are 
imprisoned  by  an  enchanter  in  these  paper  and  leath 
ern  boxes  ;  and,  though  they  know  us,  and  have  been 
waiting  two,  ten,  or  twenty  centuries  for  us,  —  some  of 
them, — and  are  eager  to  give  us  a  sign,  and  unbosom 
themselves,  it  is  the  law  of  their  limbo  that  they  must 
not  speak  until  spoken  to  ;  and  as  the  enchanter  has 
dressed  them,  like  battalions  of  infantry,  in  coat  and 
jacket  of  one  cut,  by  the  thousand  and  ten  thousand, 
your  chance  of  hitting  on  the  right  one  is  to  be  com 
puted  by  the  arithmetical  rule  of  Permutation  and  Com 
bination,  —  not  a  choice  out  of  three  caskets,  but  out 
of  half  a  million  caskets  all  alike.  But  it  happens  in 
our  experience,  that  in  this  lottery  there  are  at  least 
fifty  or  a  hundred  blanks  to  a  prize.  It  seems,  then,  as 
if  some  charitable  soul,  after  losing  a  great  deal  of  time 
among  the  false  books,  and  alighting  upon  a  few  true 
ones  which  made  him  happy  and  wise,  would  do  a  right 
act  in  naming  those  which  have  been  bridges  or  ships 
to  carry  him  safely  over  dark  morasses  and  barren 
oceans,  into  the  heart  of  sacred  cities,  into  palaces  and 
temples.  This  would  be  best  done  by  those  great  mas- 


156  BOOKS. 

tcrs  of  books  who  from  time  to  time  appear,  —  the 
Fabricii,  the  Scldens,  Magliabecchis,  Scaligers,  Miran- 
dolas,  Bayles,  Johnsons,  whose  eyes  sweep  the  whole 
horizon  of  learning.  But  private  readers,  reading  purely 
for  love  of  the  book,  would  serve  us'by  leaving  each  the 
shortest  note  of  what  he  found. 

There  are  books ;  and  it  is  practicable  to  read  them, 
because  they  are  so  few.  We  look  over  with  a  sigh  the 
monumental  libraries  of  Paris,  of  the  Vatican,  and  the 
British  Museum.  In  1858,  the  number  of  printed  books 
in  the  Imperial  Library  at  Paris  was  estimated  at  eight- 
hundred  thousand  volumes ;  with  an  annual  increase  of 
twelve  thousand  volumes;  so  that  the  number  of  printed 
books  extant  to-day  may  easily  exceed  a  million.  It  is 
easy  to  count  the  number  of  pages  which  a  diligent  man 
can  read  in  a  day,  and  the  number  of  years  which  human 
life  in  favorable  circumstances  allows  to  reading ;  and  to 
demonstrate  that,  though  he  should  read  from  dawn  till 
dark,  for  sixty  years,  he  must  die  in  the  first  alcoves. 
But  nothing  can  be  more  deceptive  than  this  arithmetic, 
where  none  but  a  natural  method  is  really  pertinent. 
I  visit  occasionally  the  Cambridge  Library,  and  I  can 
seldom  go  there  without  renewing  the  conviction  that  the 
best  of  it  all  is  already  within  the  four  walls  of  my  study 
at  home.  The  inspection  of  the  catalogue  brings  me 
continually  back  to  the  few  standard  writers  who  are 
on  every  private  shelf;  and  to  these  it  can  afford  only 
the  most  slight  and  casual  additions.  The  crowds  and 
centuries  of  books  arc  only  commentary  and  elucida 
tion,  echoes  and  weakeners  of  these  few  great  voices  of 
Time. 


BOOKS.  157 

The  best  rule  of  reading  will  be  a  method  from  nature, 
and  not  a  mechanical  one  of  hours  and  pages.  It  holds 
each  student  to  a  pursuit  of  his  native  aim,  instead  of  a 
desultory  miscellany.  Let  him  read  what  is  proper  to 
him,  and  not  waste  his  memory  on  a  crowd  of  mediocri 
ties.  As  whole  nations  have  derived  their  culture  from 
a  single  book,  —  as  the  Bible  has  been  the  literature 
as  well  as  the  religion  of  large  portions  of  Europe,  —  as 
Ilafiz  was  the  eminent  genius  of  the  Persians,  Confucius 
of  the  Chinese,  Cervantes  of  the  Spaniards  ;  so,  perhaps, 
the  human  mind  would  be  a  gainer,  if  all  the  secondary 
writers  were  lost,  —  say,  in  England,  all  but  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  and  Bacon,  —  through  the  profounder  study  so 
drawn  to  those  wonderful  minds.  With  this  pilot  of  his 
own  genius,  let  the  student  read  one,  or  let  him  read 
many,  he  will  read  advantageously.  Dr.  Johnson  said : 
"  Whilst  you  stand  deliberating  which  book  your  son 
shall  read  first,  another  boy  has  read  both  :  read  anything 
five  hours  a  day,  and  you  will  soon  be  learned." 

Nature  is  much  our  friend  in  this  matter.  Nature  is 
always  clarifying  her  water  and  her  wine.  No  filtration 
can  be  so  perfect.  She  does  the  same  thing  by  books  as 
by  her  gases  and  plants.  There  is  always  a  selection  in 
writers,  and  then  a  selection  from  the  selection.  In  the 
first  place,  all  books  that  get  fairly  into  the  vital  air  of 
the  world  were  written  by  the  successful  class,  by  the 
affirming  and  advancing  class,  who  utter  what  tens  of 
thousands  feel  though  they  cannot  say.  There  has  al 
ready  been  a  scrutiny  and  choice  from  many  hundreds 
of  young  pens,  before  the  pamphlet  or  political  chapter 
which  you  read  in  a  fugitive  journal  comes  to  your  eye. 


158  BOOKS. 

All  these  are  young  adventurers,  who  produce  their  per 
formance  to  the  wise  ear  of  Time,  who  sits  and  weighs, 
and,  ten  years  hence,  out  of  a  million  of  pages  reprints 
one.  Again  it  is  judged,  it  is  winnowed  by  all  the  winds 
of  opinion,  and  what  terrific  selection  has  not  passed  on 
it  before  it  can  be  reprinted  after  twenty  years, — and 
reprinted  after  a  century  !  —  it  is  as  if  Minos  and  Khad- 
amanthus  had  indorsed  the  writing.  'T  is  therefore  an 
economy  of  time  to  read  old  and  famed  books.  Noth 
ing  can  be  preserved  which  is  not  good ;  and  I  know 
beforehand  that  Pindar,  Martial,  Terence,  Galen,  Kepler, 
Galileo,  Bacon,  Erasmus,  More,  will  be  superior  to  the 
average  intellect.  In  contemporaries,  it  is  not  so  easy 
to  distinguish  betwixt  notoriety  and  fame. 

Be  sure,  then,  to  read  no  mean  books.  Shun  the 
spawn  of  the  press  on  the  gossip  of  the  hour.  Do  not 
read  what  you  shall  learn,  without  asking,  in  the  street 
and  the  train.  Dr.  Johnson  said,  "  he  always  went  into 
stately  shops " ;  and  good  travellers  stop  at  the  best 
hotels  ;  for,  though  they  cost  more,  they  do  not  cost 
much  more,  and  there  is  the  good  company  and  the  best 
information.  In  like  manner,  the  scholar  knows  that  the 
famed  books  contain,  first  and  last,  the  best  thoughts 
and  facts.  Now  and  then,  by  rarest  luck,  in  some  foolish 
Grub  Street  is  the  gem  we  want.  But  in  the  best  cir 
cles  is  the  best  information.  If  you  should  transfer  the 
amount  of  your  reading  day  by  day  from  the  newspaper 
to  the  standard  authors  —  But  who  dare  speak  of  such 
a  thing  ? 

The  three  practical  rules,  then,  which  I  have  to  offer, 
are,  —  1.  Never  read  any  book  that  is  not  a  year  old. 


BOOKS.  159 

2.  Never  read  any  but  famed  books.     3.  Never  read  any 
but  what  you  like  ;  or,  in  Shakspeare's  phrase, 

"  No  profit  goes  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'cn  : 
lu  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect." 

Montaigne  says,  "Books  are  a  languid  pleasure";  but 
I  find  certain  books  vital  and  spermatic,  not  leaving  the 
reader  what  he  was  :  he  shuts  the  book  a  richer  man.  I 
would  never  willingly  read  any  others  than  such.  And 
I  will  venture,  at  the  risk  of  inditing  a  list  of  old  primers 
and  grammars,  to  count  the  few  books  which  a  super 
ficial  reader  must  thankfully  use. 

Of  the  old  Greek  books,  I  think  there  are  five  which 
we  cannot  spare :  1.  Homer,  who,  in  spite  of  Pope  and 
all  the  learned  uproar  of  centuries,  has  really  the  true 
fire,  and  is  good  for  simple  minds,  is  the  true  and  ade 
quate  germ  of  Greece,  and  occupies  that  place  as  history, 
which  nothing  can  supply.  It  holds  through  all  litera 
ture,  that  our  best  history  is  still  poetry.  It  is  so  in 
Hebrew,  in  Sanskrit,  and  in  Greek.  English  history  is 
best  known  through  Shakspeare ;  how  much  through 
Merlin,  Robin  Hood,  and  the  Scottish  ballads!  —  the 
German,  through  the  Nibelungenlied  ;  —  the  Spanish, 
through  the  Cid.  Of  Homer,  George  Chapman's  is  the 
heroic  translation,  though  the  most  literal  prose  version 
is  the  best  of  all.  2.  Herodotus,  whose  history  contains 
inestimable  anecdotes,  which  brought  it  with  the  learned 
into  a  sort  of  disesteem ;  but  in  these  days,  when  it  is 
found  that  what  is  most  memorable  of  history  is  a  few 
anecdotes,  and  that  we  need  not  be  alarmed  though  we 
should  find  it  not  dull,  it  is  regaining  credit.  3.  JSschy- 


ICO  BOOKS. 

lus,  the  grandest  of  the  three  tragedians,  who  has  given 
us  under  a  thin  veil  the  first  plantation  of  Europe.  The 
"Prometheus"  is  a  poem  of  the  like  dignity  and  scope 
as  the  Book  of  Job,  or  the  Norse  Edda.  4.  Of  Plato  I 
hesitate  to  speak,  lest  there  should  be  no  end.  You  find 
in  him  that  which  you  have  already  found  in  Homer,  now 
ripened  to  thought,  —  the  poet  converted  to  a  philoso 
pher,  with  loftier  strains  of  musical  wisdom  than  Homer 
reached ;  as  if  Homer  were  the  youth,  and  Plato  the  fin 
ished  man ;  yet  with  no  less  security  of  bold  and  perfect 
song,  when  he  cares  to  use  it,  and  with  some  harp-strings 
fetched  from  a  higher  heaven.  He  contains  the  future, 
as  he  came  out  of  the  past.  In  Plato,  you  explore  mod 
ern  Europe  in  its  causes  and  seed,  —  all  that  in  thought, 
which  the  history  of  Europe  embodies  or  has  yet  to  em 
body.  The  well-informed  man  finds  himself  anticipated. 
Plato  is  up  with  him  too.  Nothing  has  escaped  him. 
Every  new  crop  in  the  fertile  harvest  of  reform,  every 
fresh  suggestion  of  modern  humanity,  is  there.  If  the 
student  wish  to  see  both  sides,  and  justice  done  to  the 
man  of  the  world,  pitiless  exposure  of  pedants,  and  the 
supremacy  of  truth  and  the  religious  sentiment,  he  shall 
be  contented  also.  Why  should  not  young  men  be  edu 
cated  on  this  book  ?  It  would  suffice  for  the  tuition  of 
the  race,  —  to  test  their  understanding,  and  to  express 
their  reason.  Here  is  that  which  is  so  attractive  to  all 
men,  —  the  literature  of  aristocracy  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  the 
picture  of  the  best  persons,  sentiments,  and  manners,  by 
the  first  master,  in  the  best  times,  —  portraits  of  Pericles, 
Alcibiades,  Crito,  Prodicus,  Protagoras,  Anaxagoras,  and 
Socrates,  with  the  lovely  background  of  the  Athenian  and 


BOOKS.  1G1 

suburban  landscape.  Or  wlio  can  overestimate  the  im 
ages  with  which  Plato  has  enriched  the  minds  of  men, 
and  which  pass  like  bullion  in  the  currency  of  all  nations  ? 
Head  the  "  Phsudo,"  the  "  Protagoras,"  the  "  Phsedrus," 
the  "Timaeus,"  the  "Republic,"  and  the  "Apology 
of  Socrates."  5.  Plutarch  cannot  be  spared  from  the 
smallest  library ;  first,  because  he  is  so  readable,  which 
is  much;  then,  that  he  is  medicinal  and  invigorating. 
The  lives  of  Cimon,  Lycurgus,  Alexander,  Demosthenes, 
Phocion,  Marcellus,  and  the  rest,  are  what  history  has  of 
best.  But  this  book  has  taken  care  of  itself,  and  the 
opinion  of  the  world  is  expressed  in  the  innumerable 
cheap  editions,  which  make  it  as  accessible  as  a  news 
paper.  But  Plutarch's  "Morals"  is  less  known,  and 
seldom  reprinted.  Yet  such  a  reader  as  I  am  writing 
to  can  as  ill  spare  it  as  the  "Lives."  He  will  read  in  it 
the  essays  "On  the  Daemon  of  Socrates,"  "On  Isis  and 
Osiris,"  "  On  Progress  in  Virtue,"  "On  Garrulity,"  "  On 
Love,"  and  thank  anew  the  art  of  printing,  and  the 
cheerful  domain  of  ancient  thinking.  Plutarch  charms 
by  the  facility  of  his  associations ;  so  that  it  signifies  little 
where  you  open  his  book,  you  find  yourself  at  the  Olym 
pian  tables.  His  memory  is  like  the  Isthmian  Games, 
where  all  that  was  excellent  in  Greece  was  assembled, 
and  you  are  stimulated  and  recruited  by  lyric  verses, 
by  philosophic  sentiments,  by  the  forms  and  behavior  of 
heroes,  by  the  worship  of  the  gods,  and  by  the  passing 
of  fillets,  parsley  and  laurel  wreaths,  chariots,  armor,  sa 
cred  cups,  and  utensils  of  sacrifice.  An  inestimable  tril 
ogy  of  ancient  social  pictures  are  the  three  "  Banquets  " 
respectively  of  Plato,  Xenoplion,  and  Plutarch.  Plu- 


162  BOOKS. 

tarch's  lias  the  least  approach  to  historical  accuracy  ; 
but  the  meeting  of  the  Seven  Wise  Masters  is  a  charm 
ing  portraiture  of  ancient  manners  and  discourse,  and  is 
as  clear  as  the  voice  of  a  fife,  and  entertaining  as  a  French 
novel.  Xenophon's  delineation  of  Athenian  manners  is  an 
accessory  to  Plato,  and  supplies  traits  of  Socrates ;  whilst 
Plato's  has  merits  of  every  kind, — being  a  repertory  of 
the  wisdom  of  the  ancients  on  the  subject  of  love,  —  a 
picture  of  a  feast  of  wits,  not  less  descriptive  than  Aris 
tophanes, —  and,  lastly,  containing  that  ironical  eulogy  of 
Socrates  which  is  the  source  from  which  all  the  portraits 
of  that  philosopher  current  in  Europe  have  been  drawn. 

Of  course  a  certain  outline  should  be  obtained  of 
Greek  history,  in  which  the  important  moments  and  per- 
sons  can  be  rightly  set  down ;  but  the  shortest  is  the 
best,  and  if  one  lacks  stomach  for  Mr.  Grote's  volumi 
nous  annals,  the  old  slight  and  popular  summary  of  Gold 
smith  or  of  Gillies  will  serve.  The  valuable  part  is  the 
age  of  Pericles  and  the  next  generation.  And  here  we 
must  read  the  "Clouds"  of  Aristophanes,  and  what 
more  of  that  master  we  gain  appetite  for,  to  learn  our 
way  in  the  streets  of  Athens,  and  to  know  the  tyranny  of 
Aristophanes,  requiring  more  genius  and  sometimes  not 
less  cruelty  than  belonged  to  the  official  commanders. 
Aristophanes  is  now  very  accessible,  with  much  valuable 
commentary,  through  the  labors  of  Mitchell  and  Cart- 
wright.  An  excellent  popular  book  is  J.  A.  St.  John's 
"  Ancient  Greece  "  ;  the  "  Life  and  Letters  "  of  Nicbuhr, 
even  more  than  his  Lectures,  furnish  leading  views;  and 
Winckclmann,  a  Greek  born  out  of  due  time,  has  be 
come  essential  to  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Attic 


BOOKS.  1G3 

genius.  The  secret  of  the  recent  histories  in  German 
and  in  English  is  the  discovery,  owed  first  to  Wolff,  and 
later  to  Boeckh,  that  the  sincere  Greek  history  of  that 
period  must  be  drawn  from  Demosthenes,  especially  from 
the  business  orations,  and  from  the  comic  poets. 

If  we  come  down  a  little  by  natural  steps  from  the 
master  to  the  disciples,  we  have,  six  or  seven  centuries 
later,  the  Platonists,  —  who  also  cannot  be  skipped,  — 
Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Proclus,  Synesius,  Jamblichus.  Of 
Jamblichus  the  Emperor  Julian  said,  "  that  he  was  pos 
terior  to  Plato  in  time,  not  in  genius."  Of  Plotinus,  we 
have  eulogies  by  Porphyry  and  Longinus,  and  the  favor 
of  the  Emperor  Gallienus,  —  indicating  the  respect  he  in 
spired  among  his  contemporaries.  If  any  one  who  had 
read  with  interest  the  "  Isis  and  Osiris "  of  Plutarch 
should  then  read  a  chapter  called  "Providence,"  by 
Synesius,  translated  into  English  by  Thomas  Taylor,  he 
will  find  it  one  of  the  majestic  remains  of  literature, 
and,  like  one  walking  in  the  noblest  of  temples,  will 
conceive  new  gratitude  to  his  fellow-men,  and  a  new  esti 
mate  of  their  nobility.  The  imaginative  scholar  will  find 
few  stimulants  to  his  brain  like  these  writers.  He  has 
entered  the  Elysian  Fields ;  and  the  grand  and  pleasing 
figures  of  gods  and  demons  and  demoniacal  men,  of  the 
"  azonic  "  and  the  "  aquatic  gods,"  demons  with  fulgid 
eyes,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Platonic  rhetoric,  exalted  a 
little  under  the  African  sun,  sail  before  his  eyes.  The 
acolyte  has  mounted  the  tripod  over  the  cave  at  Delphi ; 
his  heart  dances,  his  sight  is  quickened.  These  guides 
speak  of  the  gods  with  such  depth  and  with  such  pic 
torial  details,  as  if  they  had  been  bodily  present  at  the 


BOOKS. 

Olympian  feasts.  The  reader  of  these  hooks  makes  new 
acquaintance  with  his  own  mind ;  new  regions  of  thought 
are  opened.  Jamblichus'a  "  Life  of  Pythagoras  "  works 
more  directly  on  the  will  than  the  others ;  since  Pythago 
ras  was  eminently  a  practical  person,  the  founder  of  a 
school  of  ascetics  and  socialists,  a  planter  of  colonies, 
and  nowise  a  man  of  abstract  studies  alone. 

The  respectable  and  sometimes  excellent  translations 
of  Bohn's  Library  have  done  for  literature  what  rail 
roads  have  done  for  internal  intercourse.  I  do  not  hesi 
tate  to  read  all  the  books  I  have  named,  and  all  good 
books,  in  translations.  What  is  really  best  in  any  book 
is  translatable,  —  any  real  insight  or  broad  human  senti 
ment.  Nay,  I  observe  that,  in  our  Bible,  and  other 
books  of  lofty  moral  tone,  it  seems  easy  and  inevitable  to 
render  the  rhythm  and  music  of  the  original  into  phrases 
of  equal  melody.  The  Italians  have  a  fling  at  transla 
tors, —  i  traditori  traduttori ;  but  I  thank  them.  I 
rarely  read  any  Latin,  Greek,  German,  Italian,  sometimes 
not  a  French  book  in  the  original,  which  I  can  procure 
in  a  good  version.  I  like  to  be  beholden  to  the  great 
metropolitan  English  speech,  the  sea  which  receives 
tributaries  from  every  region  under  heaven.  I  should 
as  soon  think  of  swimming  across  Charles  lliver  when  I 
wish  to  go  to  Boston,  as  of  reading  all  my  books  in  origi 
nals,  when  I  have  them  rendered  for  me  in  my  mother- 
tongue. 

For  history  there  is  great  choice  of  ways  to  bring  the 
student  through  early  Home.  If  he  can  read  Livy,  he 
has  a  good  book  ;  but  one  of  the  short  English  com- 
pends,  some  Goldsmith  or  Ferguson,  should  be  used, 


BOOKS.  165 

that  will  place  in  the  cycle  the  bright  stars  of  Plutarch. 
The  poet  Horace  is  the  eye  of  the  Augustan  age ;  Taci 
tus,  the  wisest  of  historians ;  and  Martial  will  give  him 
lloinau  manners,  —  and  some  very  bad  ones,  —  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Empire:  but  Martial  must  be  read,  if 
read  at  all,  in  his  own  tongue.  These  will  bring  him  to 
Gibbon,  who  will  take  him  in  charge,  and  convey  him 
with  abundant  entertainment  down  —  with  notice  of  all 
remarkable  objects  on  the  way  —  through  fourteen  hun 
dred  years  of  time.  He  cannot  spare  Gibbon,  with  his 
vast  reading, — with  such  wit  and  continuity  of  mind, 
that,  though  never  profound,  his  book  is  one  of  the  con 
veniences  of  civilization,  like  the  new  railroad  from  ocean 
to  ocean, — and,  I  think,  will  be  sure  to  send  the  reader 
to  his  "Memoirs  of  Himself,"  and  the  "Extracts  from 
my  Journal,"  and  "Abstracts  of  my  Readings,"  which 
will  spur  the  laziest  scholar  to  emulation  of  his  prodi 
gious  performance. 

Now  having  our  idler  safe  down  as  far  as  the  fall  of 
Constantinople  in  1453,  he  is  in  very  good  courses ;  for 
here  are  trusty  hands  waiting  for  him.  The  cardinal  facts 
of  European  history  are  soon  learned.  There  is  Dante's 
poem,  to  open  the  Italian  Republics  of  the  Middle  Age  ; 
Dante's  "Vita  Nuova,"  to  explain  Dante  and  Beatrice; 
and  Boccaccio's  "  Life  of  Dante,"  —  a  great  man  to  de 
scribe  a  greater.  To  help  us,  perhaps  a  volume  or  two 
of  M.  Sismondi's  "  Italian  Republics  "  will  be  as  good  as 
the  entire  sixteen.  When  wre  come  to  Michel  Angelo, 
his  Sonnets  and  Letters  must  be  read,  with  his  Life  by 
Vasari,  or,  in  our  day,  by  Herman  Grimm.  Tor  the 
Church,  and  the  Feudal  Institution,  Mr.  Hallam's  "  Mid- 


ICG  BOOKS. 

die  Ages  "  will  furnish,  if  superficial,  yet  readable  and 
conceivable  outlines. 

The  "  Life  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,"  by  the  useful 
Robertson,  is  still  the  key  of  the  following  age.  Xirne- 
nes,  Columbus,  Loyola,  Luther,  Erasmus,  Melanchthon, 
Francis  I.,  Henry  VIII.,  Elizabeth,  and  Henry  IV.  of 
France,  are  his  contemporaries.  It  is  a  time  of  seeds  and 
expansions,  whereof  our  recent  civilization  is  the  fruit. 

If  now  the  relations  of  England  to  European  affairs 
bring  him  to  British  ground,  he  is  arrived  at  the  very 
moment  when  modern  history  takes  new  proportions. 
He  can  look  back  for  the  legends  and  mythology  to  the 
"  Younger  Edda  "  and  the  "  Heimskringla  "  of  Snorro 
Sturleson,  to  Mallet's  "  Northern  Antiquities,"  to  Ellis's 
"  Metrical  Romances,"  to  Asser's  "  Life  of  Alfred  "  and 
Venerable  Bede,  and  to  the  researches  of  Sharon  Turner 
and  Palgrave.  Hume  will  serve  him  for  an  intelligent 
guide,  and  in  the  Elizabethan  era  he  is  at  the  richest 
period  of  the  English  mind,  with  the  chief  men  of  action 
and  of  thought  which  that  nation  has  produced,  and  wit  h 
a  pregnant  future  before  him.  Here  he  has  Sliakspeare, 
Spenser,  Sidney,  Raleigh,  Bacon,  Chapman,  Jonson,  Ford, 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Herbert,  Donne,  Herrick  ;  and 
Milton,  Marvell,  and  Dryden,  not  long  after. 

In  reading  history,  he  is  to  prefer  the  history  of  indi 
viduals.  He  will  not  repent  the  time  he  gives  to  Bacon, 
—  not  if  he  read  the  "Advancement  of  Learning,"  the 
"Essays,"  the  "  Novum  Organum,"  the  "History  of 
Henry  VII.,"  and  then  all  the  "Letters"  (especially 
those  to  the  Earl  of  Devonshire,  explaining  the  Essex 
business),  and  all  but  his  "Apophthegms." 


BOOKS.  167 

The  task  is  aided  by  the  strong  mutual  light  which 
these  men  shed  on  each  other.  Thus,  the  works  of  Ben 
Jonson  are  a  sort  of  hoop  to  bind  all  these  fine  persons 
together,  and  to  the  land  to  which  they  belong.  He  has 
written  verses  to  or  on  all  his  notable  contemporaries ; 
and  what  with  so  many  occasional  poems,  and  the  por 
trait  sketches  in  his  "Discoveries,"  and  the  gossiping 
record  of  his  opinions  in  his  conversations  with  Drum- 
mond  of  Hawthornden,  he  has  really  illustrated  the 
England  of  his  time,  if  not  to  the  same  extent,  yet  much 
in  the  same  way,  as  Walter  Scott  has  celebrated  the  per 
sons  and  places  of  Scotland.  Walton,  Chapman,  Her- 
rick,  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton  write  also  to  the  times. 

Among  the  best  books  are  certain  Autobiographies :  as 
St.  Augustine's  Confessions  ;  Benvenuto  Cellini's  Life ; 
Montaigne's  Essays;  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury's  Me 
moirs  ;  Memoirs  of  the  Cardinal  de  Retz ;  Rousseau's 
Confessions  ;  Linnseus's  Diary  ;  Gibbon's,  Hume's,  Frank 
lin's,  Burns's,  Alfieri's,  Goethe's,  and  Haydon's  Autobi 
ographies. 

Another  class  of  books  closely  allied  to  these,  and  of 
like  interest,  are  those  which  may  be  called  Table-Talks : 
of  which  the  best  are  Saadi's  Gulistan  ;  Luther's  Table- 
Talk  ;  Aubrey's  Lives ;  Spence's  Anecdotes ;  Selden's 
Table-Talk ;  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson ;  Eckermann's 
Conversations  with  Goethe ;  Coleridge's  Table-Talk ;  and 
Hazlitt's  Life  of  Northcote. 

There  is  a  class  whose  value  I  should  designate  as 
Favorites:  such  as  Froissart's  Chronicles;  Southey's 
Chronicle  of  the  Cid ;  Cervantes ;  Sully's  Memoirs ; 
Rabelais ;  Montaigne ;  Izaak  Walton ;  Evelyn ;  Sir 


1G8 


BOOKS. 


Thomas  Browne ;  Aubrey;  Sterne;  Horace  Wai  pole  • 
Lord  Clarendon;  Doctor  Johnson;  Burke,  shedding 
floods  of  light  on  his  times;  Lamb;  Lanclor;  and  De 
Quincey;  — a  list,  of  course,  that  may  easily  be  swelled 
as  dependent  on  individual  caprice.  Many  men  are  as 
tender  and  irritable  as  lovers  in  reference  to  these  predi 
lections.  Indeed,  a  man's  library  is  a  sort  of  harem,  and 
I  observe  that  tender  readers  have  a  great  pudency  in 
showing  their  books  to  a  stranger. 

The  annals  of  bibliography  afford  many  examples  of 
the  delirious  extent  to  which  book-fancying  can  go,  when 
the  legitimate  delight  in  a  book  is  transferred  to  a  rare 
edition  or  to   a   manuscript.      This   mania  reached  its 
height  about  the  beginning  of  the  present  century       For 
an  autograph  of  Shakspeare  one  hundred  and  fifty-five 
guineas  were  given.      In  May,  1812,  the  library  of  the 
Duke  of  Roxburgh  was  sold.     The  sale  lasted  fortv-two 
days,  -we  abridge  the  story  from  Dibdin,  -and  amon- 
the  many  curiosities  was  a  copy  of  Boccaccio  published 
by  \aldarfor,  at  Venice,  in  1471;  the  only  perfect  copy 
of  this  edition.    Among  the  distinguished  company  which 
attended  tho  sale  were  the   Duke   of  Devonshire,  Earl 
Spencer  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  then  Marquis  of 
Blandford.     The  bid  stood  at  five  hundred  guineas.     "A 
thousand   guineas,"    said    Earl   Spencer:    "And   ten" 
added  the  Marquis.     You  might  hear  a  pin  drop.     All 
eyes  were  bent  on  the  bidders.     Now  they  talked  apart 
now  ate  a  biscuit,  now  made  a  bet,  but  without  the  least 
thought  of  yielding  one  to  the  other.     But  to  pass  over 
some  details, -the  contest  proceeded  until  the  Marquis 
ud,     Two  thousand  pounds."     The  Earl  Spencer  be- 


BOOKS.  109 

thought  him  like  a  prudent  general  of  useless  bloodshed 
and  waste  of  powder,  and  had  paused  a  quarter  of  a 
minute,  when  Lord  Alfhorp  with  long  steps  came  to 
his  side,  as  if  to  bring  his  father  a  fresh  lance  to  renew 
the  fight  Father  and  son  whispered  together,  and  Earl 
Spencer  exclaimed,  "Two  thousand  two  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds!"  An  electric  shock  went  through  (he 
assembly.  "And  ten,"  quietly  added  the  Marquis. 
There  ended  the  strife.  Ere  Evans  let  the  hammer  fall, 
lie  paused  ;  the  ivory  instrument  swept  the  air;  the  spec 
tators  stood  dumb,  when  the  hammer  fell.  .  The  stroke 
of  its  fall  sounded  on  the  farthest  shores  of  Italy.  The 
tap  of  that  hammer  was  heard  in  the  libraries  of  Rome, 
Milan,  and  Venice.  Boccaccio  stirred  in  his  sleep  of  five 
hundred  years,  and  M.  Van  Praet  groped  in  vain  among 
the  royal  alcoves  in  Paris,  to  detect  a  copy  of  the  famed 
Valdarfer  Boccaccio. 

Another  class  I  distinguish  by  the  term  TocaMarieg. 
Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy"  is  a  book  of  great 
learning.  To  read  it  is  like  reading  in  a  dictionary. 
'T  is  an  inventory  to  remind  us  how  many  classes  and 
species  of  facts  exist,  and,  in  observing  into'  what  strange 
and  multiplex  by-ways  learning  has  strayed,  to  infer  our 
opulence.  Neither  is  a  dictionary  a  bad  book  to  read. 
There  is  no  cant  in  it,  no  excess  of  explanation,  and  it  is 
full  of  suggestion,  —  the  raw  material  of  possible  poems 
and  histories.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  a  little  shuffling, 
sorting,  ligature,  and  cartilage.  Out  of  a  hundred  ex 
amples,  Cornelius  Agrippa  "On  the  Vanity  of  Arts  and 
Sciences  "  is  a  specimen  of  that  scribatiousness  which 
grew  to  be  the  habit  of  the  gluttonous  readers  of  his 
8 


170  BOOKS. 

time.  Like  the  modern  Germans,  they  read  a  literature 
while  other  mortals  read  a  few  books.  They  read  vora 
ciously,  and  must  disburden  themselves  ;  so  they  take 
any  general  topic,  as,  Melancholy,  or  Praise  of  Science, 
or  Praise  of  Folly,  and  write  and  quote  without  method 
or  end.  Now  and  then  out  of  that  affluence  of  their 
learning  comes  a  fine  sentence  from  Theophrastus,  or 
Seneca,  or  Boethius,  but  no  high  method,  no  inspiring 
efflux.  But  one  cannot  afford  to  read  for  a  few  sen 
tences  ;  they  are  good  only  as  strings  of  suggestive 
words. 

There  is  another  class,  more  needful  to  the  present 
age,  because  the  currents  of  custom  run  now  in  another 
direction,  and  leave  us  dry  on  this  side ;  —  I  mean  the 
Imaginative.  A  right  metaphysics  should  do  justice  to 
the  co-ordinate  powers  of  Imagination,  Insight,  Under 
standing,  and  Will.  Poetry,  with  its  aids  of  Mythology 
and  Romance,  must  be  well  allowed  for  an  imaginative 
creature.  Men  are  ever  lapsing  into  a  beggarly  habit, 
wherein  everything  that  is  not  ciphering,  that  is,  which 
does  not  serve  the  tyrannical  animal,  is  hustled  out  of 
sight.  Our  orators  and  writers  are  of  the  same  poverty, 
and,  in  this  rag-fair,  neither  the  Imagination,  the  great 
awakening  power,  nor  the  Morals,  creative  of  genius 
and  of  men,  are  addressed.  But  though  orator  and  poet 
be  of  this  hunger  party,  the  capacities  remain.  We  must 
have  symbols.  The  child  asks  you  for  a  story,  and  is 
thankful  for  the  poorest.  It  is  not  poor  to  him,  but  radi 
ant  with  meaning.  The  man  asks  for  a  novel,  —  that  is, 
asks  leave  for  a  few  hours  to  be  a  poet,  and  to  paint 
things  as  they  ought  to  be.  The  youth  asks  for  a  poem. 


BOOKS.  171 

The  very  dunces  wish  to  go  to  the  theatre.  What  pri 
vate  heavens  can  \ve  not  open,  by  yielding  to  all  the 
suggestion  of  rich  music  !  We  must  have  idolatries, 
mythologies,  —  some  swing  and  verge  for  the  creative 
power  lying  coiled  and  cramped  here,  driving  ardent  na 
tures  to  insanity  and  crime  if  it  do  not  find  vent.  With 
out  the  great  arts  which  speak  to  the  sense  of  beauty, 
a  man  seems  to  me  a  poor,  naked,  shivering  creature. 
These  are  his  becoming  draperies,  which  warm  and  adorn 
him.  Whilst  the  prudential  and  economical  tone  of 
society  starves  the  imagination,  affronted  Nature  gets 
such  indemnity  as  she  may.  The  novel  is  that  allowance 
and  frolic  the  imagination  finds.  Everything  else  pins  it 
down,  and  men  flee  for  redress  to  Byron,  Scott,  Disraeli, 
Dumas,  Sand,  Balzac,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Reade. 
Their  education  is  neglected ;  but  the  circulating  library 
and  the  theatre,  as  well  as  the  trout-fishing,  the  Notch 
Mountains,  the  Adirondack  country,  the  tour  to  Mont 
Blanc,  to  the  White  Hills,  and  the  Ghauts,  make  such 
amends  as  they  can. 

The  imagination  infuses  a  certain  volatility  and  in 
toxication.  It  has  a  flute  which  sets  the  atoms  of  our 
frame  in  a  dance,  like  planets ;  and,  once  so  liberated,  the 
whole  man  reeling  drunk  to  the  music,  they  never  quite 
subside  to  their  old  stony  state.  But  what  is  the  imagi 
nation  ?  Only  an  arm  or  weapon  of  the  interior  energy  ; 
only  the  precursor  of  the  reason.  And  books  that  treat 
the  old  pedantries  of  the  world,  our  times,  places,  profes 
sions,  customs,  opinions,  histories,  with  a  certain  freedom, 
and  distribute  tilings,  not  after  the  usages  of  America 
and  Europe,  but  after  the  laws  of  right  reason,  and  with 


172  BOOKS. 

as  daring  a  freedom  as  we  use  in  dreams,  put  us  on  our 
feet  again,  enable  us  to  form  an  original  judgment  of  our 
duties,  and  suggest  new  thoughts  for  to-morrow. 

"  Lucrezia  Floriani,"  "  Le  Peclie  de  M.  Antoine," 
"  Jeanne,"  and  "  Consuelo,"  of  George  Sand,  are  great 
steps  from  the  novel  of  one  termination,  which  we  all 
read  twenty  years  ago.  Yet  how  far  off  from  life  and 
manners  and  motives  the  novel  still  is  !  Life  lies  about 
us  dumb ;  the  day,  as  we  know  it,  has  not  yet  found  a 
tongue.  These  stories  are  to  the  plots  of  real  life  what 
the  figures  in  "  La  Belle  Assemblee,"  which  represent 
the  fashion  of  the  month,  arc  to  portraits.  But  the 
novel  will  find  the  way  to  our  interiors  one  day,  and  will 
not  always  be  the  novel  of  costume  merely.  I  do  not 
think  it  inoperative  now.  So  much  novel-reading  can 
not  leave  the  young  men  and  maidens  untouched  ;  and 
doubtless  it  gives  some  ideal  dignity  to  the  day.  The 
young  study  noble  behavior  ;  and  as  the  player  in  "  Con 
suelo  "  insists  that  he  and  his  colleagues  on  the  boards 
have  taught  princes  the  fine  etiquette  and  strokes  of 
grace  and  dignity  which  they  practise  with  so  much 
effect  in  their  villas  and  among  their  dependants,  so  I 
often  see  traces  of  the  Scotch  or  the  French  novel  in  the 
courtesy  and  brilliancy  of  young  midshipmen,  collegians, 
and  clerks.  Indeed,  when  one  observes  how  ill  and  ugly 
people  make  their  loves  and  quarrels,  't  is  pity  they 
should  not  read  novels  a  little  more,  to  import  the  fine 
generosities,  and  the  clear,  firm  conduct,  which  are  as 
becoming  in  the  unions  and  separations  which  love  effects 
under  shingle  roofs  as  in  palaces  and  among  illustrious 
personages. 


BOOKS.  173 

In  novels  the  most  serious  questions  are  beginning 
to  be  discussed.  What  made  the  popularity  of  "Jane 
Eyre,"  but  that  a  central  question  was  answered  in  some 
sort?  The  question  there  answered  in  regard  to  a 
vieious  marriage  will  always  be  treated  according  to  the 
habit  of  the  party.  A  person  of  commanding  individual 
ism  will  answer  it  as  Rochester  does,  —  as  Cleopatra,  as 
Milton,  as  George  Sand  do,  —  magnifying  the  exception 
into  a  rule,  dwarling  the  world  into  an  exception.  A 
person  of  less  courage,  that  is,  of  less  constitution,  will 
answer  as  the  heroine  does,  —  giving  way  to  fate,  to  con 
ventionalism,  to  the  actual  state  and  doings  of  men  and 
women. 

For  the  most  part,  our  novel-reading  is  a  passion  for 
results.  We  admire  parks,  and  high-born  beauties,  and 
the  homage  of  drawing-rooms,  and  parliaments.  They 
make  us  sceptical,  by  giving  prominence  to  wealth  and 
social  position. 

I  remember  when  some  peering  eyes  of  boys  discov 
ered  that  the  oranges  hanging  on  the  boughs  of  an 
orange-tree  in  a  gay  piazza  were  tied  to  the  twigs  by 
thread.  I  fear  't  is  so  with  the  novelist's  prosperities. 
Nature  has  a  magic  by  which  she  fits  the  man  to  his  for 
tunes,  by  making  them  the  fruit  of  his  character.  But 
the  novelist  plucks  this  event  here,  and  that  fortune 
there,  and  ties  them  rashly  to  his  figures,  to  tickle  the 
fancy  of  his  readers  with  a  cloying  success,  or  scare  them 
with  shocks  of  tragedy.  And  so,  on  the  whole,  't  is  a 
juggle.  We  are  cheated  into  laughter  or  wonder  by 
feats  which  only  oddly  combine  acts  that  we  do  every 
day.  There  is  no  new  element,  no  power,  no  furtherance. 


174  BOOKS. 

'T  is  only  confectionery,  not  the  raising  of  new  corn. 
Great  is  the  poverty  of  their  inventions.  She  was  beau 
tiful,  and  he  fell  in  love.  Money,  and  killing,  and  the 
Wandering  Jew,  and  persuading  the  lover  that  his  mis 
tress  is  betrothed  to  another,  —  these  are  the  main 
springs  :  new  names,  but  no  new  qualities  in  the  men 
and  women.  Hence  the  vain  endeavor  to  keep  any  bit 
of  this  fairy  gold,  which  has  rolled  like  a  brook  through 
our  hands.  A  thousand  thoughts  awoke ;  great  rain 
bows  seemed  to  span  the  sky,  —  a  morning  among  the 
mountains  ;  —  but  we  close  the  book,  and  not  a  ray 
remains  in  the  memory  of  evening.  But  this  passion 
for  romance,  and  this  disappointment,  show  how  much 
we  need  real  elevations  and  pure  poetry :  that  which  shall 
show  us,  in  morning  and  night,  in  stars  and  mountains, 
and  in  all  the  plight  and  circumstance  of  men,  the  analo 
gous  of  our  own  thoughts,  and  a  like  impression  made 
by  a  just  book  and  by  the  face  of  Nature. 

If  our  times  are  sterile  in  genius,  we  must  cheer  us 
•with  books  of  rich  and  believing  men  who  had  atmos 
phere  and  amplitude  about  them.  Every  good  fable, 
every  mythology,  every  biography  from  a  religious  age, 
every  passage  of  love,  and  even  philosophy  and  science, 
when  they  proceed  from  an  intellectual  integrity,  and  are 
not  detached  and  critical,  have  the  imaginative  element. 
The  Greek  fables,  the  Persian  history  (Firdusi),  the 
"Younger  Edda"  of  the  Scandinavians,  the  "Chronicle 
of  the  Cid,"  the  poem  of  Dante,  the  Sonnets  of  Michel 
Angelo,  the  English  drama  of  Shakspeare,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  and  Ford,  and  even  the  prose  of  Bacon  and 
Milton,  —  in  our  time,  the  Ode  of  Wordsworth,  and  the 


BOOKS.  175 

poems  and  the  prose  of  Goethe,  have  this  enlargement, 
and  inspire  hope  and  generous  attempts. 

There  is  no  room  left,  —  and  yet  I  might  as  well  not 
have  begun  as  to  leave  out  a  class  of  books  which  are  the 
best :  I  mean  the  Bibles  of  the  world,  or  the  sacred 
books  of  each  nation,  which  express  for  each  the  supreme 
result  of  their  experience.  After  the  Hebrew  and  Greek 
Scriptures,  which  constitute  the  sacred  books  of  Christen 
dom,  these  are,  the  Desatir  of  the  Persians,  and  the  Zo- 
roastrian  Oracles ;  the  Vedas  and  Laws  of  Menu ;  the 
Upanishads,  the  Vishnu  Purana,  the  Bhagvat  Geeta,  of 
the  Hindoos  ;  the  books  of  the  Buddhists  ;  the  "  Chinese 
Classic,"  of  four  books,  containing  the  wisdom  of  Con 
fucius  and  Mencius.  Also  such  other  books  as  have 
acquired  a  semi-canonical  authority  in  the  world,  as 
expressing  the  highest  sentiment  and  hope  of  nations. 
Such  are  the  "  Hermes  Trismegistus,"  pretending  to  be 
Egyptian  remains;  the  "Sentences"  of  Epictetus;  of 
Marcus  Antoninus ;  the  "  Vishnu  Sarraa  "  of  the  Hin 
doos  ;  the  "Gulistan"  of  Saadi ;  the  "Imitation  of 
Christ,"  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  ;  and  the  "  Thoughts  "  of 
Pascal. 

All  these  books  are  the  majestic  expressions  of  the 
universal  conscience,  and  are  more  to  our  daily  purpose 
than  this  year's  almanac  or  this  day's  newspaper.  But 
they  are  for  the  closet,  and  to  be  read  on  the  bended 
knee.  Their  communications  are  not  to  be  given  or 
taken  with  the  lips  and  the  end  of  the  tongue,  but  out 
of  the  glow  of  the  cheek,  and  with  the  throbbing  heart. 
Friendship  should  give  and  take,  solitude  and  time  brood 
and  ripen,  heroes  absorb  and  enact  them.  They  are  not 


BOOKS. 


176 

to  be  held  by  letters  printed  on  a  page,  but  are  living 
characters  translatable  into  every  tongue  and  form  of 
life.     I  read  them  on  lichens  and  bark ;  I  watch  them 
on  waves  on  the  beach  ;  they  fly  in  birds,  they  creep  in 
worms ;  I  detect  them  in  laughter  and  blushes  and  eye- 
sparkles  of  men  and  women.     These  are  Scriptures  which 
the  missionary  might  well  carry  over  prairie,  desert,  and 
ocean,  to  Siberia,  Japan,  Timbuctoo.     Yet  he  will  find 
that  the  spirit  which  is  in  them  journeys  faster  than  he, 
and  greets  him  on  his  arrival,  —  was  there  already  long 
before  him.     The  missionary  must  be  carried  by  it,  and 
find  it  there,  or  he  goes  in  vain.     Is  there  any  geography 
in  these  things  ?     We  call  them  Asiatic,  we  cal?  them 
primeval ;  but  perhaps  that  is  only  optical ;  for  Nature 
is  always  equal  to  herself,  and  there  arc  as  good  eyes  and 
ears  now  in  the  planet  as  ever  were.     Only  these  ejacu 
lations  of  the  soul  are  uttered  one  or  a  few  at  a  time,  at 
long  intervals,  and  it  takes  millenniums  to  make  a  Bible. 
These  are  a  few  of  the  books  which  the  old  and  the 
later  times  have  yielded  us,  which  will  reward  the  time 
spent  on  them.     In  comparing  the  number  of  good  books 
with  the  shortness  of  life,  many  might  well  be  read  by 
proxy,  if  we  had  good  proxies ;  and  it  would  be  well  for 
sincere  young  men  to  borrow  a  hint  from  the  French  In 
stitute  and  the  British  Association,  and,  as  they  divide 
the  whole  body  into  sections,  each  of  which  sits  upon 
and  reports  of  certain  matters  confided  to  it,  so  let  each 
scholar  associate  himself  to  such  persons  as  he  can  rely 
on,  in  a  literary  club,  in  which  each  shall  undertake  a 
single  work  or  series  for  which  he    is  qualified.      For 
example,  how  attractive  is  the  whole  literature  of  the 


BOOKS.  177 

"Roman  de  la  Rose,"  ihe  "  Fabliaux,  "  and  the  gaie  sci 
ence  of  the  French  Troubadours  !  Yet  who  in  Boston  has 
time  for  that  ?  But  one  of  our  company  shall  undertake 
it,  shall  study  and  master  it,  and  shall  report  on  it,  as  un 
der  oath ;  shall  give  us  the  sincere  result,  as  it  lies  in  his 
mind,  adding  nothing,  keeping  nothing  back.  Another 
member,  meantime,  shall  as  honestly  search,  sift,  and  as 
truly  report,  on  British  mythology,  the  Round  Table,  the 
histories  of  Brut,  Merlin,  and  Welsh  poetry ;  a  third  on 
the  Saxon  Chronicles,  Robert  of  Gloucester,  and  Wil 
liam  of  Malmcsbury ;  a  fourth,  on  Mysteries,  Early 
Drama,  "  Gesta  Romanorum,"  Collier,  and  Dvce,  and 
the  Camden  Society.  Each  shall  give  us  his  grains  of 
gold,  after  the  washing;  and  every  other  shall  then  de 
cide  whether  this  is  a  book  indispensable  to  him  also. 


CLUBS. 


CLUBS. 


WE  are  delicate  machines,  and  require  nice  treatment 
to  get  from  us  the  maximum  of  power  and  pleasure. 
We  need  tonics,  but  must  have  those  that  cost  little  or 
no  reaction.  The  flame  of  life  burns  too  fast  in  pure 
oxygen,  and  nature  has  tempered  the  air  with  nitrogen. 
So  thought  is  the  native  air  of  the  mind,  yet  pure  it  is  a 
poison  to  our  mixed  constitution,  and  soon  burns  up  the 
bone-house  of  man,  unless  tempered  with  affection  and 
coarse  practice  in  the  material  world.  Varied  foods, 
climates,  beautiful  objects,  —  and  especially  the  alterna 
tion  of  a  large  variety  of  objects,  — are  the  necessity  of 
this  exigent  system  of  ours.  But  our  tonics,  our  luxu 
ries,  are  force-pumps  which  exhaust  the  strength  they 
pretend  to  supply ;  and  of  all  the  cordials  known  to  us, 
the  best,  safest,  and  most  exhilarating,  with  the  least 
harm,  is  society  ;  and  every  healthy  and  efficient  mind 
passes  a  large  part  of  life  in  the  company  most  easy 
to  him. 

We  seek  society  with  very  different  aims,  and  the 
staple  of  conversation  is  widely  unlike  in  its  circles. 
Sometimes  it  is  facts,  —  running  from  those  of  daily 
necessity  to  the  last  results  of  science,  —  and  has  all 
degrees  of  importance ;  sometimes  it  is  love,  and  makes 


182 


CLUBS. 


the  balm  of  our  early  and  of  our  latest  days  ;  sometimes 
it  is  thought,  as  from  a  person  who  is  a  mind  only; 
sometimes  a  singing,  as  if  the  heart  poured  out  all  like  a 
a  bird;  sometimes  experience.  With  some  men  it  is  a 
debate;  at  the  approach  of  a  dispute  they  neigh  like 
horses.  Unless  there  be  an  argument,  they  think  noth 
ing  is  doing.  Some  talkers  excel  in  the  precision  with 
which  they  formulate  their  thoughts,  so  that  you  get 
from  them  somewhat  to  remember ;  others  lay  criticism 
asleep  by  a  charm.  Especially  women  use  words  that 

are  not  words,  —  as  steps  in  a  dance  are  not  steps, 

but  reproduce  the  genius  of  that  they  speak  of;  as  the 
sound  of  some  bells  makes  us  think  of  the  bell  merely, 
whilst  the  church-chimes  in  the  distance  bring  the  church 
and  its  serious  memories  before  us.  Opinions  are  acci 
dental  in  people,  —  have  a  poverty-stricken  air.  A  man 
valuing  himself  as  the  organ  of  this  or  that  dogma  is 
a  dull  companion  enough  ;  but  opinion  native  to  the 
speaker  is  sweet  and  refreshing,  and  inseparable  from 
his  image.  Neither  do  we  by  any  means  always  go  to 

people  for  conversation.     How  often  to  say  nothing, 

and  yet  must  go ;  as  a  child  will  long  for  his  compan 
ions,  but  among  them  plays  by  himself.  'Tis  only 
presence  which  we  want.  But  one  thing  is  certain,  — 
at  some  rate,  intercourse  we  must  have.  The  experience 
of  retired  men  is  positive,  —  that  we  lose  our  days  and 
are  barren  of  thought  for  want  of  some  person  to  talk 
with.  The  understanding  can  no  more  empty  itself  by 
its  own  action  than  can  a  deal  box. 

The  clergyman  walks  from  house  to  house  all  day  all 
the  year  to  give  people  the  comfort  of  good  talk.    'The 


.CLUBS.  183 

physician  helps  them  mainly  in  the  same  way,  by  healthy 
talk  giving  a  right  tone  to  the  patient's  mind.  The  din- 
ner,  the  walk,  the  fireside,  all  have  that  for  their  main 
end. 

See  how  Nature  has  secured  the  communication  of 
knowledge.  'T  is  certain  that  money  does  not  more 
burn  in  a  boy's  pocket  than  a  piece  of  news  burns  in 
our  memory  until  we  can  tell  it.  And,  in  higher  activ 
ity  of  mind,  every  new  perception  is  attended  with  a 
thrill  of  pleasure,  and  the  imparting  of  it  to  others  is 
also  attended  with  pleasure.  Thought  is  the  child  of 
the  intellect,  and  this  child  is  conceived  with  joy  and 
born  with  joy. 

Conversation  is  the  laboratory  and  workshop  of  the 
student.  The  affection  or  sympathy  helps.  The  wish 
to  speak  to  the  want  of  another  mind  assists  to  clear 
your  own.  A  certain  truth  possesses  us,  which  we  in  all 
ways  strive  to  utter.  Every  time  we  say  a  thing  in  con 
versation,  we  get  a  mechanical  advantage  in  detaching 
it  well  and  deliverly.  I  prize  the  mechanics  of  conversa 
tion.  'T  is  pulley  and  lever  and  screw.  To  fairly  dis 
engage  the  mass,  and  send  it  jingling  down,  a  good 
bowlder, —a  block  of  quartz  and  gold,  to  be  worked 
up  at  leisure  in  the  useful  arts  of  life,  —  is  a  wonderful 
relief. 

What  are  the  best  days  in  memory?  Those  in  which 
we  met  a  companion  who  was  truly  such.  How  sweet 
those  hours  when  the  day  was  not  long  enough  to  com 
municate  and  compare  our  intellectual  jewels, — the 
favorite  passages  of  each  book,  the  proud  anecdotes  of 
heroes,  the  delicious  verses  we  have  hoarded !  What 


our 


184 


CLUBS. 


a  motive  had  then  our  solitary  days  !  How  the  counte 
nance  of  our  friend  still  left  some  light  after  he  had 
gone !  We  remember  the  time  when  the  best  gift  we 
could  ask  of  fortune  was  to  fall  in  with  a  valuable  com 
panion  in  a  ship's  cabin,  or  on  a  long  journey  in  the 
old  stage-coach,  where,  each  passenger  being  forced  to 
know  every  other,  and  other  employments  being  out  of 
question,  conversation  naturally  flowed,  people  became 
rapidly  acquainted,  and,  if  well  adapted,  more  intimate 
in  a  day  than  if  they  had  been  neighbors  for  years. 

In  youth,  in  the  fury  of  curiosity  and  acquisition,  the 
day  is  too  short  for  books  and  the  crowd  of  thoughts, 
and  we  are  impatient  of  interruption.  Later,  when 
books  tire,  thought  has  a  more  languid  flow;  and  the 
days  come  when  we  are  alarmed,  and  say  there  are  no 
thoughts.  "  What  a  barren- witted  pate  is  mine  !  "  the 
student  says  ;  "  I  will  go  and  learn  whether  I  have  lost 
my  reason."  He  seeks  intelligent  persons,  whether 
more  wise  or  less  wise  than  he,  who  give  him  provoca 
tion,  and  at  once  and  easily  the  old  motion  begins  in  his 
brain:  thoughts,  fancies,  humors,  flow;  the  cloud  lifts; 
the  horizon  broadens  ;  and  the  infinite  opulence  of  things 
is  again  shown  him.  But  the  right  conditions  must  be 
observed.  Mainly  he  must  have  leave  to  be  himself. 
Sancho  Panza  blessed  the  man  who  invented  sleep.  So 
I  prize  the  good  invention  whereby  everybody  is  pro 
vided  with  somebody  who  is  glad  to  see  him. 

If  men  are  less  when  together  than  they  are  alone, 
they  are  also  in  some  respects  enlarged.  They  kindle 
each  other;  and  such  is  the  power  of  suggestion,  that 
each  sprightly  story  calls  out  more;  and  sometimes  a 


CLUBS.  185 

fact  that  had  long  slept  in  the  recesses  of  memory  hears 
the  voice,  is  welcomed  to  daylight,  and  proves  of  rare 
value.  Every  metaphysician  must  have  observed,  not 
only  that  no  thought  is  alone,  but  that  thoughts  com 
monly  go  in  pairs ;  though  the  related  thoughts  first 
appeared  in  his  mind  at  long  distances  of  time.  Tilings 
are  in  pairs ;  a  natural  fact  has  only  half  its  value,  until 
a  fact  in  moral  nature,  its  counterpart,  is  stated.  Then, 
they  confirm  and  adorn  each  other;  a  story  is  matched 
by  another  story.  And  that  may  be  the  reason  why, 
when  a  gentleman  has  told  a  good  thing,  he  immediately 
tells  it  again. 

Nothing  seems  so  cheap  as  the  benefit  of  conversa 
tion  :  nothing  is  more  rare.  'T  is  wonderful  how  you 
are  balked  and  baffled.  There  is  plenty  of  intelligence, 
reading,  curiosity  ;  but  serious,  happy  discourse,  avoid 
ing  personalities,  dealing  with  results,  is  rare  :  and  I 
seldom  meet  with  a  reading  and  thoughtful  person  but 
he  tells  me,  as  if  it  were  his  exceptional  mishap,  that  he 
has  no  companion. 

Suppose  such  a  one  to  go  out  exploring  different  cir 
cles  in  search  of  this  wise  and  genial  counterpart,  —  he 
might  inquire  far  and  wide.  Conversation  in  society  is 
found  to  be  on  a  platform  so  low  as  to  exclude  science, 
the  saint,  and  the  poet.  Amidst  all  the  gay  banter,  sen 
timent  cannot  profane  itself  and  venture  out.  The  reply 
of  old  Isocrates  comes  so  often  to  mind,  —  "  The  things 
which  are  now  seasonable  I  cannot  say ;  and  for  the 
things  which  I  can  say  it  is  not  now  the  time."  Besides, 
who  can  resist  the  charm  of  talent  ?  The  lover  of  letters 
loves  power  too.  Among  the  men  of  wit  and  learning, 


186  CLUBS. 

he  could  not  withhold  his  homage  from  the  gayety,  grasp 
of  memory,  luck,  splendor,  and  speed  ;  such  exploits  of 
discourse,  such  feats  of  society  !  What  new  powers,  what 
mines  of  wealth !  But  when  he  came  home,  his  brave 
sequins  were  dry  leaves.  He  found  either  that  the  fact 
they  had  thus  dizencd  and  adorned  was  of  no  value,  or 
that  he  already  knew  all  and  more  than  all  they  had  told 
him.  He  could  not  find  that  he  was  helped  by  so  much 
as  one  thought  or  principle,  one  solid  fact,  one  com 
manding  impulse  :  great  was  the  dazzle,  but  the  gain 
was  small.  He  uses  his  occasions  ;  he  seeks  the  com 
pany  of  those  who  have  convivial  talent.  But  the  mo 
ment  they  meet,  to  be  sure  they  begin  to  be  something 
else  than  they  were ;  they  play  pranks,  dance  jigs,  run 
on  each  other,  pun,  tell  stories,  try  many  fantastic  tricks, 
under  some  superstition  that  there  must  be  excitement 
and  elevation;  —  and  they  kill  conversation  at  once.  I 
know  well  the  rusticity  of  the  shy  hermit.  No  doubt  he 
does  not  make  allowance  enough  for  men  of  more  active 
blood  and  habit.  But  it  is  only  on  natural  ground  that 
conversation  can  be  rich.  It  must  not  begin  with  up 
roar  and  violence.  Let  it  keep  the  ground,  let  it  feel 
tke  connection  with  the  battery.  Men  must  not  be  off 
their  centres. 

Some  men  love  only  to  talk  where  they  are  masters. 
They  like  to  go  to  school-girls,  or  to  boys,  or  into  the 
shops  where  the  sauntering  people  gladly  lend  an  ear  to 
any  one.  On  these  terms  they  give  information,  and 
please  themselves  by  sallies  and  chat  which  are  admired 
by  the  idlers ;  and  the  talker  is  at  his  ease  and  jolly,  for 
he  can  walk  out  without  ceremony  when  he  pleases. 


CLUBS.  187 

They  go  rarely  to  their  equals,  and  then  as  for  their  o\vn 
convenience  simply,  making  too  much  haste  to  introduce 
and  impart  their  new  whim  or  discovery ;  listen  badly, 
or  do  not  listen  to  the  comment  or  to  the  thought  by 
which  the  company  strive  to  repay  them ;  rather,  as  soon 
as  their  own  speech  is  done,  they  lake  their  hats.  Then 
there  are  the  gladiators,  to  whom  it  is  always  a  battle  ; 
'tis  no  matter  on  which  side,  they  fght  for  victory; 
then  the  heady  men,  the  egotists,  the  monotones,  the 
steriles,  and  the  impracticables. 

It  does  not  help  that  you  find  as  good  or  a  better  man 
than  yourself,  if  he  is  not  timed  and  fitted  to  you.  The 
greatest  sufferers  are  often  those  who  have  the  most  to 
say,  —  men  of  a  delicate  sympathy,  who  are  dumb  in 
mixed  company.  Able  people,  if  they  do  not  know  how 
to  make  allowance  for  them,  paralyze  them.  One  of 
those  conceited  prigs  who  value  nature  only  as  it  feeds 
and  exhibits  them  is  equally  a  pest  with  the  roysterers. 
There  must  be  large  reception  as  well  as  giving.  How 
delightful  after  these  disturbers  is  the  radiant,  playful 
wit  of — one  whom  I  need  not  name,  —  for  in  every  soci 
ety  there  is  his  representative.  Good-nature  is  stronger 
than  tomahawks.  His  conversation  is  all  pictures :  he 
can  reproduce  whatever  he  has  seen ;  he  tells  the  best 
story  in  the  county,  and  is  of  such  genial  temper  that  he 
disposes  all  others  irresistibly  to  good-humor  and  dis 
course.  Diderot  said  of  the  Abbe  Galiani :  "He  was 
a  treasure  in  rainy  days ;  and  if  the  cabinet-makers 
made  such  things,  everybody  would  have  one  in  the 
country." 

One  lesson  we  learn  early,  —  that,  in  spite  of  seeming 


188 


CLUBS. 


difference,  men  are  all  of  one  pattern.  We  readily  as 
sume  this  with  our  mates,  and  are  disappointed  and  an 
gry  if  we  find  that  we  are  premature,  and  that  their 
watches  are  slower  than  ours.  In  fact,  the  only  sin 
which  we  never  forgive  in  each  other  is  difference  of 
opinion.  We  know  beforehand  that  yonder  man  must 
think  as  we  do.  Has  he  not  two  hands,  —two  feet,  — 

hair  and  nails  ?     Does  he  not  eat,  —  bleed,  —  laugh, 

cry?  His  dissent  from  me  is  the  veriest  affectation. 
This  conclusion  is  at  once  the  logic  of  persecution  and  of 
love.  And  the  ground  of  our  indignation  is  our  con 
viction  that  his  dissent  is  some  wilfulness  he  practises  on 
himself.  He  checks  the  flow  of  his  opinion,  as  the  cross 
cow  holds  up  her  milk.  Yes,  and  we  look  into  his  eye, 
and  see  that  he  knows  it  and  hides  his  eye  from  ours. 

But  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  my  mark,  I  am  to  say 
that  there  may  easily  be  obstacles  in  the  way  of  finding 
the  pure  article  we  are  in  search  of;  but  when  we  find 
it,  it  is  worth  the  pursuit,  for  beside  its  comfort  as  med 
icine  and  cordial,  once  in  the  right  company,  new  and 
vast  values  do  not  fail  to  appear.  All  that  man  can  do 
for  man  is  to  be  found  in  that  market.  There  are  great 
prizes  in  this  game.  Our  fortunes  in  the  world  are  as 
our  mental  equipment  for  this  competition  is.  Yonder 
is  a  man  who  can  answer  the  questions  which  I  cannot. 
Is  it  so  ?  Hence  comes  to  me  boundless  curiosity  to 
know  his  experiences  and  his  wit.  Hence  competition 
for  the  stakes  dearest  to  man.  What  is  a  match  at 
whist,  or  draughts,  or  billiards,  or  chess,  to  a  match  of 
mother-wit,  of  knowledge,  and  of  resources  ?  However 
courteously  we  conceal  it,  it  is  social  rank  and  spiritual 


CLUBS.  189 

power  that  are  compared;    whether  in  the  parlor,  the 
courts,  the  caucus,  the  senate,  or  the  chamber  of  science, 

—  which  are  only  less  or  larger  theatres  for  this  com 
petition. 

He  that  can  define,  he  that  can  answer  a  question  so 
as  to  admit  of  no  further  answer,  is  the  best  man.  This 
was  the  meaning  of  the  story  of  the  Sphinx.  In  the 
old  time  conundrums  were  sent  from  king  to  king  by 
ambassadors.  The  seven  wise  masters  at  Periander's 
banquet  spent  their  time  in  answering  them.  The  life  of 
Socrates  is  a  propounding  and  a  solution  of  these.  So, 
in  the  hagiology  of  %each  nation,  the  lawgiver  was  in  each 
case  some  man  of  eloquent  tongue,  whose  sympathy 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  extremes  of  society. 
Jesus,  Menu,  the  first  Buddhist,  Mahomet,  Zertusht, 
Pythagoras,  are  examples. 

Jesus  spent  his  life  in  discoursing  with  humble  people 
on  life  and  duty,  in  giving  wise  answers,  showing  that  he 
saw  at  a  larger  angle  of  vision,  and  at  least  silencing 
those  who  were  not  generous  enough  to  accept  his 
thoughts.  Luther  spent  his  life  so ;  and  it  is  not  his 
theologic  works,  —  his  "  Commentary  on  the  Galatians," 
and  the  rest,  but  his  "  Table-Talk,"  which  is  still  read 
by  men.  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  man  of  no  profound  mind, 

—  full  of  English  limitations,  English  politics,   English 
Church,   Oxford  philosophy ;  yet   having  a  large  heart, 
mother- wit,  and  good  sense,  which  impatiently  overleaped 
his  customary  bounds,  his  conversation  as  reported  by 
Boswell  has  a  lasting  charm.     Conversation  is  the  vent 
of  character  as  well  as  of  thought ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  im 
presses  his  company,   not  only  by  the  point  of  the  re- 


190  CLUBS. 

mark,  but  also,  when  the  point  fails,  because  Tie  makes  it. 
His  obvious  religion  or  superstition,  his  deep  wish  that 
they  should  think  so  or  so,  weighs  with  them,  —  so  rare 
is  depth  of  feeling,  or  a  constitutional  value  for  a  thought 
or  opinion,  among  the  light-minded  men  and  women  who 
make  up  society  ;  and  though  they  know  that  there  is  in 
the  speaker  a  degree  of  shortcoming,  of  insincerity,  and 
of  talking  for  victory,  yet  the  existence  of  character, 
and  habitual  reverence  for  principles  over  talent  or  learn 
ing,  is  felt  by  the  frivolous. 

One  of  the  best  records  of  the  great  German  master, 
who  towered  over  all  his  contemporaries  in  the  first 
thirty  years  of  this  century,  is  his  conversations  as  re 
corded  by  Eckermann ;  and  the  "  Table-Talk  "  of  Cole 
ridge  is  one  of  the  best  remains  of  his  genius. 

In  the  Norse  legends,  the  gods  of  Valhalla,  when  they 
meet  the  Jotuus,  converse  on  the  perilous  terms  that 
lie  who  cannot  answer  the  other's  questions  forfeits  his 
own  life.  Odin  comes  to  the  threshold  of  the  Jotuu 
Waftrhudnir  in  disguise,  calling  himself  Gangrader ;  is 
invited  into  the  hall,  and  told  that  he  cannot  go  out 
thence  unless  he  can  answer  every  question  Waftrhudnir 
shall  put.  Waftrhudnir  asks  him  the  name  of  the  god  of 
the  sun,  and  of  the  god  who  brings  the  night;  what  river 
separates  the  dwellings  of  the  sons  of  the  giants  from 
those  of  the  gods  ;  what  plain  lies  between  the  gods 
and  Surtur,  their  adversary,  etc. ;  all  which  the  disguised 
Odin  answers  satisfactorily.  Then  it  is  his  turn  to  inter 
rogate,  and  he  is  answered  well  for  a  time  by  the  Jotun. 
At  last  he  puts  a  question  which  none  but  himself  could 
answer  :  "  What  did  Odiii  whisper  in  the  ear  of  his  son 


CLUBS.  191 

Balder,  when  Balder  mounted  the  funeral  pile  ?  "  The 
startled  giant  replies :  "  None  of  the  gods  knows  what 
in  the  old  time  THOU  saidst  in  the  ear  of  thy  son :  with 
death  on  my  mouth  have  I  spoken  the  fate-words  of  the 
generation  of  the  JEsir :  with  Odin  contended  I  in  wise 
words.  Thou  must  ever  the  wisest  be." 

And  still  the  gods  and  giants  are  so  known,  and  still 
they  play  the  same  game  in  all  the  million  mansions  of 
heaven  and  of  earth  ;  at  all  tables,  clubs,  and  tete-a-tetes, 
the  lawyers  in  the  court -house,  the  senators  in  the  capi- 
tol,  the  doctors  in  the  academy,  the  wits  in  the  hotel. 
Best  is  he  who  gives  an  answer  that  cannot  be  answered 
again.  Omnis  definitio  periculosa  est,  and  only  wit  has 
the  secret.  The  same  thing  took  place  when  Leibnitz 
came  to  visit  Newton ;  when  Schiller  came  to  Goethe ; 
when  France,  in  the  person  of  Madame  de  Stael,  visited 
Goethe  and  Schiller ;  when  Hegel  was  the  guest  of  Vic 
tor  Cousin  in  Paris;  when  Linnaeus  was  the  guest  of 
Jussieu.  It  happened  many  years  ago,  that  an  American 
chemist  carried  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Dalton  of 
Manchester,  England,  the  author  of  the  theory  of  atomic 
proportions,  and  was  coolly  enough  received  by  the  Doc 
tor  in  the  laboratory  where  he  was  engaged.  Only  Dr. 
Dalton  scratched  a  formula  on  a  scrap  of  paper  and 
pushed  it  towards  the  guest, —  "Had  he  seen  that?" 
The  visitor  scratched  on  another  paper  a  formula  de 
scribing  some  results  of  his  own  with  sulphuric  acid, 
and  pushed  it  across  the  table,  —  "  Had  he  seen  that  ?  " 
The  attention  of  the  English  chemist  was  instantly  ar 
rested,  and  they  became  rapidly  acquainted.  To  answer 
a  question  so  as  to  admit  of  no  reply,  is  the  test  of  a 


192  CLUBS. 

man,  —  to  touch  bottom  every  time.  Hyde,  Earl  of 
Rochester,  asked  Lord-Keeper  Guilford,  "  Do  you  not 
think  I  could  understand  any  business  in  England  in  a 
month?"  "Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  the  other,  "but  I 
think  you  would  understand  it  better  in  two  months." 
When  Edward  I.  claimed  to  be  acknowledged  by  the 
Scotch  (1292)  as  lord  paramount,  the  nobles  of  Scotland 
replied,  "  No  answer  can  be  made  while  the  throne  is 
vacant."  When  Henry  III.  (1217)  plead  duress  against 
his  people  demanding  confirmation  and  execution  of  the 
Charter,  the  reply  was :  "  If  this  were  admitted,  civil 
wars  could  never  close  but  by  the  extirpation  of  one  of 
the  contending  parties." 

What  can  you  do  with  one  of  these  sharp  respondents  ? 
What  can  you  do  with  an  eloquent  man  ?  No  rules  of 
debate,  no  contempt  of  court,  no  exclusions,  no  gag-laws 
can  be  contrived,  that  his  first  syllable  will  not  set  aside 
or  overstep  and  annul.  You  can  shut  out  the  light,  it  may 
be ;  but  can  you  shut  out  gravitation  ?  You  may  con 
demn  his  book  ;  but  can  you  fight  against  his  thought  ? 
That  is  always  too  nimble  for  you,  anticipates  you,  and 
breaks  out  victorious  in  some  other  quarter.  Can  you 
stop  the  motions  of  good  sense  ?  What  can  you  do  with 
Beaumarchais,  who  converts  the  censor  whom  the  court 
has  appointed  to  stifle  his  play  into  an  ardent  advocate  ? 
The  court  appoints  another  censor,  who  shall  crush  it 
this  time.  Beaumarchais  persuades  him  to  defend  it. 
The  court  successively  appoints  three  more  severe  in 
quisitors  ;  Beaumarchais  converts  them  all  into  trium 
phant  vindicators  of  the  play  which  is  to  bring  in  the 
Revolution.  Who  can  stop  the  mouth  of  Luther,  —  of 


CLUBS.  193 

Newton  ?  —  of  Franklin,  —  of  Mirabeau,  —  of  Talley 
rand  ? 

These  masters  can  make  good  their  own  place,  and 
need  no  patron.  Every  variety  of  gift  —  science,  relig 
ion,  politics,  letters,  art,  prudence,  war,  or  love  —  has 
its  vent  and  exchange  in  conversation.  Conversation  is 
the  Olympic  games  whither  every  superior  gift  resorts  to 
assert  and  approve  itself,  —  and,  of  course,  the  inspira 
tions  of  powerful  and  public  men,  with  the  rest.  But  it 
is  not  this  class,  —  whom  the  splendor  of  their  accom 
plishment  almost  inevitably  guides  into  the  vortex  of 
ambition,  makes  them  chancellors  and  commanders  of 
council  and  of  action,  and  makes  them  at  last  fatalists, 

—  not  these  whom  we  now  consider.    We  consider  those 
•who  are  interested  in   thoughts,  their  own  and  other 
men's,  and  who  delight  in  comparing  them,  who  think  it 
the  highest  compliment  they  can  pay  a  man,  to  deal  with 
him   as   an   intellect,  to  expose  to  him  the  grand  and 
cheerful   secrets   perhaps  never  opened  to   their  daily 
companions,  to   share  with  him  the  sphere  of  freedom 
and  the  simplicity  of  truth. 

But  the  best  conversation  is  rare.  Society  seems  to 
have  agreed  to  treat  fictions  as  realities,  and  realities  as 
fictions ;  and  the  simple  lover  of  truth,  especially  if  on 
very  high  grounds,  — as  a  religious  or  intellectual  seeker, 

—  finds  himself  a  stranger  and  alien. 

It  is  possible  that  the  best  conversation  is  between  two 
persons  who  can  talk  only  to  each  other.  Even  Montes 
quieu  confessed  that,  in  conversation,  if  he  perceived  he 
was  listened  to  by  a  third  person,  it  seemed  to  him  from 
that  moment  the  whole  question  vanished  from  his  mind. 
9  M 


CLUBS. 

I  have  known  persons  of  rare  ability  who  were  heavy 
company  to  good,  social  men  who  knew  well  enough  how 
to  draw  out  others  of  retiring  habit ;  and,  moreover,  were 
heavy  to  intellectual  men  who  ought  to  have  known  them. 
And  does  it  never  occur  that  we,  perhaps,  live  with  peo 
ple  too  superior  to  be  seen,  —  as  there  are  musical  notes 
too  high  for  the  scale  of  most  ears  ?  There  are  men  who 
are  great  only  to  one  or  two  companions  of  more  oppor 
tunity,  or  more  adapted. 

It  was  to  meet  these  wants  that  in  all  civil  nations 
attempts  have  been  made  to  organize  conversation  by 
bringing  together  cultivated  people  under  the  most  favor 
able  conditions.  'T  is  certain  there  was  liberal  and  re 
fined  conversation  in  the  Greek,  in  the  lloman,  and  in 
the  Middle  Age.  There  was  a  time  when  in  France  a 
revolution  occurred  in  domestic  architecture ;  when  the 
houses  of  the  nobility,  which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been 
constructed  on  feudal  necessities,  in  a  hollow  square,  — 
the  ground-floor  being  resigned  to  offices  and  stables,  and 
the  floors  above  to  rooms  of  state  and  to  lodging-rooms, 
—  were  rebuilt  with  new  purpose.  It  was  the  Marchion 
ess  of  Ranrbouillet  who  first  got  the  horses  out  of  and 
the  scholars  into  the  palaces,  having  constructed  her 
hotel  with  a  view  to  society,  with  superb  suites  of  draw 
ing-rooms  on  the  same  floor,  and  broke  through  the 
morgue  of  etiquette  by  inviting  to  her  house  men  of  wit 
and  learning  as  well  as  men  of  rank,  and  piqued  the  emu 
lation  of  Cardinal  Richelieu  to  rival  assemblies,  and  so 
to  the  founding  of  the  French  Academy.  The  history  of 
the  Hotel  Rambouillet  and  its  brilliant  circles  makes  an 
important  date  in  French  civilization.  And  a  history  of' 


CLUBS.  195 

clubs  from  early  antiquity^  tracing  the  efforts  to  secure 
liberal  and  refined  conversation,  through  the  Greek  and 
Roman  to  the  Middle  Age,  and  thence  down  through 
French,  English,  and  German  memoirs,  tracing  the  clubs 
and  coteries  in  each  country,  would  be  an  important 
chapter  in  history.  We  know  well  the  Mermaid  Club, 
in  London,  of  Shakspeare,  Ben  Jonson,  Chapman,  Her- 
rick,  Selden,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher ;  its  "  Rules  "  are 
preserved,  and  many  allusions  to  their  suppers  are  found 
in  Jonson,  Herrick,  and  in  xlubrey.  Anthony  Wood  has 
many  details  of  Harrington's  Club.  Dr.  Bentley's  Club 
held  Newton,  Wren,  Evelyn,  and  Locke;  and  we  owe 
to  Boswell  our  knowledge  of  the  club  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
Goldsmith,  Burke,  Gibbon,  Reynolds,  Garrick,  Beauclerk, 
and  Percy.  And  we  have  records  of  the  brilliant  society 
that  Edinburgh  boasted  in  the  first  decade  of  this  cent 
ury.  Such  societies  are  possible  only  in  great  cities, 
and  are  the  compensation  which  these  can  make  to  their 
dwellers  for  depriving  them  of  the  free  intercourse  with 
Nature.  Every  scholar  is  surrounded  by  wiser  men  than 
he  —  if  they  cannot  write  as  well.  Cannot  they  meet 
and  exchange  results  to  their  mutual  benefit  and  delight  ? 
It  was  a  pathetic  experience  when  a  genial  and  accom 
plished  person  said  to  me,  looking  from  his  country  home 
to  the  capital  of  New  England,  "  There  is  a  town  of  two 
hundred  thousand  people,  and  not  a  chair  in  it  for  me." 
If  he  were  sure  to  find  at  No.  2000  Tremont  Street  what 
scholars  were  abroad  after  the  morning  studies  were 
ended,  Boston  would  shine  as  the  New  Jerusalem  to  his 
eyes. 

Now  this  want  of  adapted  society  is  mutual.     The 


196  CLUBS. 

man  of  thought,  the  man  of  letters,  the  man  of  science, 
the  administrator  skilful  in  affairs,  the  man  of  manners 
and  culture,  whom  you  so  much  wish  to  find,  — each  of 
these  is  wishing  to  be  found.  Each  wishes  to  open  his 
thought,  his  knowledge,  his  social  skill  to  the  daylight  in 
your  company  and  affection,  and  to  exchange  his  gifts  for 
yours  ;  and  the  first  hint  of  a  select  and  intelligent  com 
pany  is  welcome. 

But  the  club  must  be  self-protecting,  and  obstacles 
arise  at  the  outset.  There  are  people  who  cannot  well 
be  cultivated,  whom  you  must  keep  down  and  quiet  if 
you  can.  There  are  those  who  have  the  instinct  of  a  bat 
to  fly  against  any  lighted  candle  and  put  it  out,  —  mar 
plots  and  contradictors.  There  arc  those  who  go  only 
to  talk,  and  those  who  go  only  to  hear :  both  are  bad.  A 
right  rule  for  a  club  would  be,  —  Admit  no  man  whose 
presence  excludes  any  one  topic.  It  requires  people  who 
are  not  surprised  and  shocked,  who  do  and  let  do,  and 
let  be,  who  sink  trifles,  and  know  solid  values,  and  who 
take  a  great  deal  for  granted. 

It  is  always  a  practical  difficulty  with  clubs  to  regulate 
the  laws  of  election  so  as  to  exclude  peremptorily  every 
social  nuisance.  Nobody  wishes  bad  manners.  We 
must  have  loyalty  and  character.  The  poet  Marvell  was 
wont  to  say  "  that  he  would  not  drink  wine  with  any  one 
with  whom  he  could  not  trust  his  life."  But  neither  can 
we  afford  to  be  superfine.  A  man  of  irreproachable  be 
havior  and  excellent  sense  preferred  on  his  travels  taking 
his  chance  at  a  hotel  for  company,  to  the  charging  him 
self  with  too  many  select  letters  of  introduction.  lie 
confessed  he  liked  low  company.  lie  said  the  fact  was 


CLUBS.  197 

incontestable,  that  the  society  of  gypsies  was  more  at 
tractive  than  that  of  bishops.  The  girl  deserts  the  parlor 
for  the  kitchen  ;  the  boy,  for  the  wharf.  Tutors  and  par 
ents  cannot  interest  him  like  the  uproarious  conversation 
he  finds  in  the  market  or  the  dock.  I  knew  a  scholar, 
of  some  experience  in  camps,  who  said  that  he  liked,  in 
a  bar-room,  to  tell  a  few  coon  stories,  and  put  himself  on 
a  good  footing  with  the  company ;  then  he  could  be  as 
silent  as  he  chose.  A  scholar  does  not  wish  to  be  always 
pumping  his  brains  :  he  wants  gossips.  The  black-coats 
are  good  company  only  for  black-coats  ;  but  when  the 
manufacturers,  merchants,  and  shipmasters  meet,  see  how 
much  they  have  to  say,  and  how  long  the  conversation 
lasts!  They  have  come  from  many  zones;  they  have 
traversed  wide  countries  ;  they  know  each  his  own  arts, 
and  the  cunning  artisans  of  his  craft ;  they  have  seen  the 
best  and  the  worst  of  men.  Their  knowledge  contra 
dicts  the  popular  opinion  and  your  own  on  many  points. 
Things  which  you  fancy  wrong  they  know  to  be  right  and 
profitable;  things  which  you  reckon  superstitious  they 
know  to  be  true.  They  have  found  virtue  in  the  stran 
gest  homes ;  and  in  the  rich  store  of  their  adventures  are 
instances  and  examples  which  you  have  been  seeking  in 
vain  for  years,  and  which  they  suddenly  and  unwittingly 
offer  you. 

I  remember  a  social  experiment  in  this  direction, 
wherein  it  appeared  that  each  of  the  members  fancied  he 
was  in  need  of  society,  but  himself  unpresentable.  On 
trial  they  all  found  that  they  could  be  tolerated  by,  and 
could  tolerate,  each  other.  Nay,  the  tendency  to  extreme 
self-respect  which  hesitated  to  join  in  a  club  was  running 


198  CLUBS. 

rapidly  down  to  abject  admiration  of  each  other,  when 
the  club  was  broken  up  by  new  combinations. 

The  use  of  the  hospitality  of  the  club  hardly  needs 
explanation.  Men  are  unbent  and  social  at  table ;  and 
I  remember  it  was  explained  to  me,  in  a  Southern  city, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  set  any  public  charity  on  foot 
unless  through  a  tavern  dinner.  I  do  not  think  our  met 
ropolitan  charities  would  plead  the  same  necessity ;  but 
to  a  club  met  for  conversation  a  supper  is  a  good  basis, 
as  it  disarms  all  parties,  and  puts  pedantry  and  business 
to  the  door.  All  are  in  good-humor  and  at  leisure,  which 
are  the  first  conditions  of  discourse  ;  the  ordinary  reserves 
are  thrown  off,  experienced  men  meet  with  the  freedom 
of  boys,  and,  sooner  or  later,  impart  all  that  is  singular  in 
their  experience. 

The  hospitalities  of  clubs  are  easily  exaggerated.  No 
doubt  the  suppers  of  wits  and  philosophers  acquire 
much  lustre  by  time  and  renown.  Plutarch,  Xcnophon, 
and  Plato,  who  have  celebrated  each  a  banquet  of  their 
set,  have  given  us  next  to  no  data  of  the  viands ;  and  it 
is  to  be  believed  that  an  indifferent  tavern  dinner  in  such 
society  was  more  relished  by  the  convives  than  a  much 
better  one  in  worse  company.  Herrick's  verses  to  Ben 
Jousou  no  doubt  paint  the  fact :  — 

"  \Yhcn  we  such  clusters  had 

As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ; 

And  yet,  each  verse  of  thine 

Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic  wine." 

Such  friends  make  the  feast  satisfying ;  and  I  notice  that 
it  was  when  things  went  prosperously,  and  the  company 


CLUBS.  199 

was  full  of  honor,  at  the  banquet  of  the  Cid,  that  "  the 
guests  all  were  joyful,  and  agreed  in  one  thing,  —  that 
they  had  not  eaten  better  for  three  years." 

I  need  only  hint  the  value  of  the  club  for  bringing 
masters  in  their  several  arts  to  compare  and  expand  their 
views,  to  come  to  an  understanding  on  these  points,  and 
so  that  their  united  opinion  shall  have  its  just  influence 
on  public  questions  of  education  and  politics.  'T  is 
agreed  that  in  the  sections  of  the  British  Association 
more  information  is  mutually  and  effectually  communi 
cated,  in  a  few  hours,  than  in  many  months  of  ordinary 
correspondence,  and  the  printing  and  transmission  of 
ponderous  reports.  We  know  that  Vhomme  ck  lettres  is 
a  little  wary,  and  not  fond  of  giving  away  his  seed-corn  ; 
but  there  is  an  infallible  way  to  draw  him  out,  namely, 
by  having  as  good  as  he.  If  you  have  Tuscaroora  and 
lie  Canada,  he  may  exchange  kernel  for  kernel.  If  his 
discretion  is  incurable,  and  he  dare  not  speak  of  fairy 
gold,  he  will  yet  tell  what  new  books  he  has  found,  what 
old  ones  recovered,  what  men  write  and  read  abroad. 
A  principal  purpose  also  is  the  hospitality  of  the  club,  as 
a  means  of  receiving  a  worthy  foreigner  with  mutual  ad 
vantage. 

Every  man  brings  into  society  some  partial  thought 
and  local  culture.  We  need  range  and  alternation  of 
topics,  and  variety  of  minds.  One  likes  in  a  companion 
a  phlegm  which  it  is  a  triumph  to  disturb,  and,  not  less, 
to  make  in  an  old  acquaintance  unexpected  discoveries 
of  scope  and  power  through  the  advantage  of  an  inspir 
ing  subject.  Wisdom  is  like  electricity.  There  is  no 
permanently  wise  man,  but  men  capable  of  wisdom,  who, 


200  CLUBS. 

being  put  into  certain  company,  or  other  favorable  con 
ditions,  become  wise  for  a  short  time,  as  glasses  rubbed 
acquire  electric  power  for  a  while.  But,  while  we  look 
complacently  at  these  obvious  pleasures  and  values  of 
good  companions,  I  do  not  forget  that  Nature  is  always 
very  much  in  earnest,  and  that  her  great  gifts  have  some 
thing  serious  and  stern.  When  we  look  for  the  highest 
benefits  of  conversation,  the  Spartan  rule  of  one  to  one 
is  usually  enforced.  Discourse,  when  it  rises  highest 
and  searches  deepest,  when  it  lifts  us  into  that  mood  out 
of  which  thoughts  come  that  remain  as  stars  in  our  fir 
mament,  is  between  two. 


COURAGE. 


COURAGE. 


I  OBSERVE  that  there  are  three  qualities  which  con 
spicuously  attract  the  wonder  and  reverence  of  man 
kind  :  - 

1.  Disinterestedness,  as  shown  in  indifference  to  the 
ordinary  bribes  and  influences  of  conduct, — a  purpose 
so  sincere  and  generous  that  it  cannot  be  tempted  aside 
by  any  prospects  of  wealth  or  other  private  advantage. 
Self-love   is,  in  almost  all   men,  such  an  over-weight, 
that  they  are  incredulous  of  a  man's  habitual  preference 
of  the  general  good  to  his  own ;  but  when  they  see  it 
proved  by  sacrifices  of  ease,  wealth,  rank,  and  of  life 
itself,  there  is  no  limit  to  their  admiration.      This  has 
made  the  power  of  the  saints  of  the  East  and  West,  who 
have  led  the  religion  of  great  nations.     Self-sacrifice  is 
the  real  miracle  out  of  which  all  the  reported  miracles 
grew.     This  makes  the  renown  of  the  heroes  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  —  of  Socrates,   Aristides,   and  Phocion  ;    of 
Quintus  Curtius,  Cato,  and  Hegulus;   of  Hatem  Tai's 
hospitality ;    of  Chatham,  whose   scornful    magnanimity 
gave  him  immense  popularity  ;    of  Washington,  giving 
his  service  to  the  public  without  salary  or  reward. 

2.  Practical  power.      Men  admire  the  man  who  can 
organize  their  wishes  and  thoughts  in  stone  and  wood 


204  COURAGE. 

and  steel  and  brass,  —  the  man  who  can  build  the  boat, 
who  has  the  impiety  to  make  the  rivers  run  the  way  he 
wants  them,  who  can  lead  his  telegraph  through  the  ocean 
from  shore  to  shore ;  who,  sitting  in  his  closet,  can  lay 
out  the  plans  of  a  campaign,  —  sea-war  and  land-war ; 
such  that  the  best  generals  and  admirals,  when  all  is 
done,  see  that  they  must  thank  him  for  success ;  the 
power  of  better  combination  and  foresight,  however  ex 
hibited,  which,  whether  it  only  plays  a  game  of  chess,  or 
whether,  more  loftily,  a  cunning  mathematician,  penetrat 
ing  the  cubic  weights  of  stars,  predicts  the  planet  which 
eyes  had  never  seen ;  or  whether,  exploring  the  chemical 
elements  whereof  we  and  the  world  are  made,  and  seeing 
their  secret,  Franklin  draws  off  the  lightning  in  his  hand, 
suggesting  that  one  day  a  wiser  geology  shall  make  the 
earthquake  harmless  and  the  volcano  an  agricultural  re 
source.  Or  here  is  one  who,  seeing  the  wishes  of  men, 
knows  how  to  come  at  their  end ;  whispers  to  this  friend, 
argues  down  that  adversary,  moulds  society  to  his  pur 
pose,  and  looks  at  all  men  as  wax  for  his  hands,  —  takes 
command  of  them  as  the  wind  does  of  clouds,  as  the 
mother  does  of  the  child,  or  the  man  that  knows  more 
does  of  the  man  that  knows  less  ;  and  leads  them  in  glad 
surprise  to  the  very  point  where  they  would  be  :  this  man 
is  followed  with  acclamation. 

3.  -The  third  excellence  is  courage,  the  perfect  will, 
which  no  terrors  can  shake,  which  is  attracted  by  frowns 
or  threats  or  hostile  armies,  nay,  needs  these  to  awake 
and  fan  its  reserved  energies  into  a  pure  flame,  and  is 
never  quite  itself  until  the  hazard  is  extreme ;  then  it  is 
serene  and  fertile,  and  all  its  powers  play  well.  There 


COURAGE.  205 

is  a  Hercules,  an  Achilles,  a  Eastern,  an  Arthur,  or  a  Cid 
in  the  mythology  of  every  nation ;  and  in  authentic  his 
tory,  a  Leonidas,  a  Scipio,  a  Caesar,  a  Richard  Coeur  de 
Lion,  a  Cromwell,  a  Nelson,  a  Great  Conde,  a  Bertrand 
du  Guesclin,  a  Doge  Dandolo,  a  Napoleon,  a  Massena, 
and  Ney.  'T  is  said  courage  is  common,  but  the  im 
mense  esteem  in  which  it  is  held  proves  it  to  be  rare. 
Animal  resistance,  the  instinct  of  the  male  animal  when 
cornered,  is  no  doubt  common ;  but  the  pure  article, 
courage  with  eyes,  courage  with  conduct,  self-possession 
at  the  cannon's  mouth,  cheerfulness  in  lonely  adherence 
to  the  right,  is  the  endowment  of  elevated  characters.  I 
need  not  show  how  much  it  is  esteemed,  for  the  people 
give  it  the  first  rank.  They  forgive  everything  to  it. 
What  an  ado  we  make  through  two  thousand  years  about 
Thermopylae  and  Salamis !  What  a  memory  of  Poitiers 
and  Crecy,  and  Bunker  Hill,  and  Washington's  endur 
ance  !  And  any  man  who  puts  his  life  in  peril  in  a  cause 
which  is  esteemed  becomes  the  darling  of  all  men.  The 
very  nursery-books,  the  ballads  which  delight  boys,  the 
romances  which  delight  men,  the  favorite  topics  of  elo 
quence,  the  thunderous  emphasis  which  orators  give  to 
every  martial  defiance  and  passage  of  arms,  and  which 
the  people  greet,  may  testify.  How  short  a  time  since 
this  whole  nation  rose  every  morning  to  read  or  to  hear 
the  traits  of  courage  of  its  sons  and  brothers  in  the  field, 
and  was  never  weary  of  the  theme  !  We  have  had  ex 
amples  of  men  who,  for  showing  effective  courage  on  a 
single  occasion,  have  become  a  favorite  spectacle  to  na 
tions,  and  must  be  brought  in  chariots  to  every  mass 


20G  COURAGE. 

Men  arc  so  charmed  with  valor,  that  they  have  pleased 
themselves  with  being  called  lions,  leopards,  eagles,  and 
dragons,  from  the  animals  contemporary  with  us  in  the 
geologic  formations.  But  the  animals  have  great  advan 
tage  of  us  in  precocity.  Touch  the  snapping-turtle  with 
a  stick,  and  he  seizes  it  with  his  teeth.  Cut  off  his  head, 
and  the  teeth  will  not  let  go  the  stick.  Break  the  egg  of 
the  young,  and  the  little  embryo,  before  yet  the  eyes  are 
open,  bites  fiercely ;  these  vivacious  creatures  contriving, 
—  shall  we  say  ?  —  not  only  to  bite  after  they  are  dead, 
but  also  to  bite  before  they  are  born. 

But  man  begins  life  helpless.  The  babe  is  in  par 
oxysms  of  fear  the  moment  its  nurse  leaves  it  alone,  and 
it  comes  so  slowly  to  any  power  of  self-protection,  that 
mothers  say  the  salvation  of  the  life  and  health  of  a 
young  child  is  a  perpetual  miracle.  The  terrors  of  the 
child  are  quite  reasonable,  and  add  to  his  loveliness ;  for 
his  utter  ignorance  and  weakness,  and  his  enchanting  in 
dignation  on  such  a  small  basis  of  capital,  compel  every 
bystander  to  take  his  part.  Every  moment,  as  long  as 
he  is  awake,  he  studies  the  use  of  his  eyes,  ears,  hands, 
and  /eet,  learning  how  to  meet  and  avoid  his  dangers, 
and  thus  every  hour  loses  one  terror  more.  But  this 
education  stops  too  soon.  A  large  majority  of  men 
being  bred  in  families,  and  beginning  early  to  be  occu 
pied  day  by  day  with  some  routine  of  safe  industry,  never 
come  to  the  rough  experiences  that  make  the  Indian,  the 
soldier,  or  the  frontiersman  self-subsist  ent  and  fearless. 
Hence  the  high  price  of  courage  indicates  the  general 
timidity.  "Mankind,"  said  Franklin,  "are  dastardly 
when  they  meet  with  opposition."  In  war  even,  gen- 


COURAGE.  207 

erals  arc  seldom  found  eager  to  give  battle.  Lord  Wel 
lington  said,  "  Uniforms  were  often  masks  "  ;  and  again, 
"  When  my  journal  appears,  many  statues  must  come 
down."  The  Norse  Sagas  relate  that  when  Bishop 
Magne  reproved  King  Sigurd  for  his  wicked  divorce, 
the  priest  who  attended  the  bishop,  expecting  every  mo 
ment  when  the  savage  king  would  burst  with  rage  and 
slay  his  superior,  said  "  that  he  saw  the  sky  no  bigger 
thaira  calf-skin."  And  I  remember  when  a  pair  of  Irish 
girls,  who  had  been  run  away  with  in  a  wagon  by  a  skit 
tish  horse,  said  that,  when  he  began  to  rear,  they  were 
so  frightened  that  they  could  not  see  the  horse. 

Cowardice  shuts  the  eyes  till  the  sky  is  not  larger  than 
a  calf-skin ;  shuts  the  eyes  so  that  we  cannot  see  the 
horse  that  is  running  away  with  us  ;  worse,  shuts  the 
eyes  of  the  mind  and  chills  the  heart.  Fear  is  cruel  and 
mean.  The  political  reigns  of  terror  have  been  reigns  of 
madness  and  malignity,  — a  total  perversion  of  opinion; 
society  is  upside  down,  and  its  best  men  are  thought  too 
bad  to  live.  Then  the  protection  which  a  house,  a  family, 
neighborhood  and  property,  even  the  first  accumulation 
of  savings,  gives  goes  in  all  times  to  generate  this  tfiint 
of  the  respectable  classes.  Voltaire  said,  "  One  of  the 
chief  misfortunes  of  honest  people  is  that  they  are  cow 
ardly."  Those  political  parties  which  gather-in  the  well- 
disposed  portion  of  the  community,  —  how  infirm  and 
ignoble  !  what  white  lips  they  have  !  always  on  the  de 
fensive,  as  if  the  lead  were  intrusted  to  the  journals, 
often  written  in  great  part  by  women  and  boys,  who,  with 
out  strength,  wish  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  strength. 
They  can  do  the  hurras,  the  placarding,  the  flags,  —  and 


208  COURAGE. 

the  voting,  if  it  is  a  fair  day ;  but  the  aggressive  attitude 
of  men  who  will  have  right  done,  will  no  longer  be  both 
ered  with  burglars  and  ruffians  in  the  streets,  counterfeit 
ers  in  public  offices,  and  thieves  on  the  bench ;  that  part, 
the  part  of  the  leader  and  soul  of  the  vigilance  committee, 
must  be  taken  by  stout  and  sincere  men  who  are  really 
angry  and  determined.  In  ordinary,  we  have  a  snappish 
criticism  which  watches  and  contradicts  the  opposite  party. 
We  want  the  will  which  advances  and  dictates.  When 
we  get  an  advantage,  as  in  Congress  the  other  day,  it  is 
because  our  adversary  has  committed  a  fault,  not  that  we 
have  taken  the  initiative  and  given  the  law.  Nature  has 
made  up  her  mind  that  what  cannot  defend  itself  shall  not 
be  defended.  Complaining  never  so  loud,  and  with  never 
so  much  reason,  is  of  no  use.  One  heard  much  cant  of 
peace-parties  long  ago  in  Kansas  and  elsewhere,  that 
their  strength  lay  in  the  greatness  of  their  wrongs,  and 
dissuading  all  resistance,  as  if.  to  make  this  strength 
greater.  But  were  their  wrongs  greater  than  the  ne 
gro's  ?  and  what  kind  of  strength  did  they  ever  give  him  ? 
It  was  always  invitation  to  the  tyrant,  and  bred  disgust 
in  those  who  would  protect  the  victim.  What  cannot 
stand  must  fall;  and  the  measure  of  our  sincerity,  and 
therefore  of  the  respect  of  men,  is  the  amount  of  health 
and  wealth  we  will  hazard  in  the  defence  of  our  right. 
An  old  farmer,  my  neighbor  across  the  fence,  when  I  ask 
him  if  he  is  not  going  to  town-meeting,  says  :  "  No ;  't  is 
no  use  balloting,  for  it  will  not  stay  ;  but  what  you  do 
with  the  gun  will  stay  so."  Nature  has  charged  every 
one  with  his  own  defence  as  with  his  own  support,  and 
the  only  title  I  can  have  to  your  help  is  when  I  have 


COURAGE.  209 

manfully  put  forth  all  the  means  I  possess  to  keep  me, 
and,  being  overborne  by  odds,  the  bystanders  have  a  nat 
ural  wish  to  interfere  and  see  fair  play. 

But  with  this  pacific  education,  we  have  no  readiness 
for  bad  times.  I  am  much  mistaken  if  every  man  who 
went  to  the  army  in  the  late  war  had  not  a  lively  curi 
osity  to  know  how  he  should  behave  in  action.  Tender, 
amiable  boys,  who  had  never  encountered  any  rougher 
play  than  a  base-ball  match  or  a  fishing  excursion,  were 
suddenly  drawn  up  to  face  a  bayonet  charge  or  capture 
a  battery.  Of  course,  they  must  each  go  into  that  action 
with  a  certain  despair.  Each  whispers  to  himself:  "My 
exertions  must  be  of  small  account  to  the  result ;  only 
will  the  benignant  Heaven  save  me  from  disgracing  my 
self  and  my  friends  and  my  State.  Die !  O  yes,  I  can 
well  die;  but  I  cannot  afford  to  misbehave;  and  I  do 
not  know  how  I  shall  feel."  So  great  a  soldier  as  the 
old  French  Marshal  Montluc  acknowledges  that  he  has 
often  trembled  with  fear,  and  recovered  courage  when  he 
had  said  a  prayer  for  the  occasion.  I  knew  a  young  sol 
dier  who  died  in  the  early  campaign,  who  confided  to  his 
sister  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  volunteer  for  the 
war.  "  I  have  not,"  he  said,  "  any  proper  courage,  but 
I  shall  never  let  any  one  find  it  out."  And  he  had  ac 
customed  himself  always  to  go  into  whatever  place  of 
danger,  and  do  whatever  he  was  afraid  to  do,  setting  a 
dogged  resolution  to  resist  this  natural  infirmity.  Cole 
ridge  has  preserved  an  anecdote  of  an  officer  in  the 
British  Navy,  who  told  him  that  when  he,  in  his  first 
boat  expedition,  a  midshipman  in  his  fourteenth  year, 
accompanied  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  "  as  we  were  rowing  up 

N 


210  COURAGE. 

to  the  vessel  we  were  to  attack,  amid  a  discharge  of  mus 
ketry,  I  was  overpowered  witli  fear,  my  knees  shook,  and 
I  was  ready  to  faint  away.  Lieutenant  Ball  seeing  me, 
placed  himself  close  beside  me,  took  hold  of  my  hand  and 
whispered,  '  Courage,  my  dear  boy !  you  will  recover  in 
a  minute  or  so ;  I  was  just  the  same  when  I  first  went 
out  in  this  way.'  It  was  as  if  an  angel  spoke  to  me. 
From  that  moment  I  was  as  fearless  and  as  forward  as 
the  oldest  of  the  boat's  crew.  But  I  dare  not  think 
what  would  have  become  of  me,  if,  at  that  moment,  he 
had  scoffed  and  exposed  me." 

Knowledge  is  the  antidote  to  fear,  —  Knowledge,  Use, 
and  lleason,  with  its  higher  aids.  The  child  is  as  much 
in  danger  from  a  staircase,  or  the  fire-grate,  or  a  bath 
tub,  or  a  cat,  as  the  soldier  from  a  cannon  or  an  ambush. 
Each  surmounts  the  fear  as  fast  as  he  precisely  under 
stands  the  peril,  and  learns  the  means  of  resistance. 
Each  is  liable  to  panic,  which  is,  exactly,  the  terror  of 
ignorance  surrendered  to  the  imagination.  Knowledge 
is  the  encourager,  knowledge  that  takes  fear  out  of  the 
heart,  knowledge  and  use,  which  is  knowledge  in  prac 
tice.  They  can  conquer  who  believe  they  can.  It  is  he 
who  has  done  the  deed  once  who  does  not  shrink  from 
attempting  it  again.  It  is  the  groom  who  knows  the 
jumping  horse  well  who  can  safely  ride  him.  It  is  the 
veteran  soldier,  who,  seeing  the  flash  of  the  cannon,  can 
step  aside  from  the  path  of  the  ball.  Use  makes  a  bet 
ter  soldier  than  the  most  urgent  considerations  of  duty, 
—  familiarity  with  danger  enabling  him  to  estimate  the 
danger.  lie  sees  how  much  is  the  risk,  and  is  not 
afflicted  with  imagination;  knows  practically  Marshal 


COURAGE.  211 

Saxe's  rule,  that  every  soldier  killed  costs  the  enemy  his 
weight  in  lead.  . 

The  sailor  loses  fear  as  fast  as  he  acquires  command 
of  sails  and  spars  and  steam ;  the  frontiersman,  when  he 
has  a  perfect  rifle  and  has  acquired  a  sure  aim.  To  the 
sailor's  experience  every  new  circumstance  suggests  what 
he  must  do.  The  terrific  chances  which  make  the  hours 
and  the  minutes  long  to  the  passenger,  he  whiles  away 
by  incessant  application  of  expedients  and  repairs.  To 
him,  a  leak,  a  hurricane,  or  a  water-spout  is  so  much 
work, —no  more.  The  hunter  is  not  alarmed  by  bears, 
catamounts,  or  wolves,  nor  the  grazier  by  his  bull,  nor 
the  dog-breeder  by  his  bloodhound,  nor  an  Arab  by  the 
simoom,  nor  a  farmer  by  a  fire  in  the  woods.  The  forest 
on  fire  looks  discouraging  enough  to  a  citizen  :  the  farmer 
is  skilful  to  fight  it.  The  neighbors  run  together;  with 
pine  boughs  they  can  mop  out  the  flame,  and,  by  raking 
with  the  hoe  a  long  but  little  trench,  confine  to  a  patcli 
the  fire  which  would  easily  spread  over  a  hundred  acres. 

In  short,  courage  consists  in  equality  to  the  problem 
before  us.  The  school-boy  is  daunted  before  his  tutor  by 
a  question  of  arithmetic,  because  he  does  not  yet  com 
mand  the  simple  steps  of  the  solution  which  the  boy  be 
side  him  has  mastered.  These  once  seen,  he  is  as  cool  as 
Archimedes,  and  cheerily  proceeds  a  step  farther.  Cour 
age  is  equality  to  the  problem,  in  affairs,  in  science,  in 
trade,  in  council,  or  in  action ;  consists  in  the  conviction 
that  the  agents  with  whom  you  contend  are  not  superior 
in  strength  or  resources  or  spirit  to  you.  The  general 
must  stimulate  the  mind  of  his  soldiers  to  the  perception 
that  they  are  men,  and  the  enemy  is  no  more.  Knowl- 


212  COURAGE. 

edge,  yes ;  for  the  danger  of  dangers  is  illusion.  The 
eye  is  easily  daunted ;  and  the  drums,  flags,  shining  hel 
mets,  beard,  and  mustache  of  the  soldier  have  conquered 
you  long  before  his  sword  or  bayonet  reaches  you. 

But  we  do  not  exhaust  the  subject  in  the  slight  analy 
sis  ;  we  must  not  forget  the  variety  of  temperaments, 
each  of  which  qualifies  this  power  of  resistance.  It  is 
observed  that  men  with  little  imagination  are  less  fear 
ful  ;  they  wait  till  they  feel  pain,  whilst  others  of  more 
sensibility  anticipate  it,  and  suffer  in  the  fear  of  the  pang 
more  acutely  than  in  the  pang.  'T  is  certain  that  the 
threat  is  sometimes  more  formidable  than  the  stroke,  and 
't  is  possible  that  the  beholders  suffer  more  keenly  than 
the  victims.  Bodily  pain  is  superficial,  seated  usually 
in  the  skin  and  the  extremities,  for  the  sake  of  giving  us 
warning  to  put  us  on  our  guard ;  not  in  the  vitals,  where 
the  rupture  that  produces  death  is  perhaps  not  felt,  and 
the  victim  never  knew  what  hurt  him.  Pain  is  superficial, 
and  therefore  fear  is.  The  torments  of  martyrdoms  arc 
probably  most  keenly  felt  by  the  bystanders.  The  tor 
ments  are  illusory.  The  first  suffering  is  the  last  suffer 
ing,  the  later  hurts  being  lost  on  insensibility.  Our  affec 
tions  and  wishes  for  the  external  welfare  of  the  hero 
tumultuously  rush  to  expression  in  tears  and  outcries ; 
but  we,  like  him,  subside  into  indiffcrcncy  and  defiance, 
when  we  perceive  how  short  is  the  longest  arm  of  malice, 
how  serene  is  the  sufferer. 

It  is  plain  that  there  is  no  separate  essence  called  cour 
age,  no  cup  or  cell  in  the  brain,  no  vessel  in  the  heart 
containing  drops  or  atoms  that  make  or  give  this  virtue ; 
but  it  is  the  right  or  healthy  state  of  every  man,  when  he 


COURAGE.  213 

is  free  to  do  that  which  is  constitutional  to  him  to  do. 
It  is  directness,  —  the  instant  performing  of  that  which 
he  ought.     The  thoughtful  man  says,  you  differ  from  me 
in  opinion  and  methods ;  but  do  you  not  see  that  I  can 
not  think  or  act  otherwise  than  I  do  ?  that  my  way  of 
living  is  organic  ?     And  to  be  really  strong  we  must  ad 
here  to  our  own  means.     On  organic  action  all  strength 
depends.      Hear  what  women   say  of  doing  a  task  by 
sheer  force  of  will :  it  costs  them  a  fit  of  sickness.     Plu 
tarch  relates  that  the  Pythoness  who  tried  to  prophesy 
without  command  in  the  Temple  at  Delphi,  though  she 
performed  the  usual  rites,  and   in  lulled   the   air  of  the 
cavern  standing  on  the  tripod,  fell  into  convulsions,  and 
died.     Undoubtedly  there  is  a  temperamental  courage,  a 
warlike  blood,  which  loves  a  fight,  does  not  feel  itself  ex 
cept  in  a  quarrel,  as  one  sees  in  wasps,  or  ants,  or  cocks, 
or  cats.     The  like  vein  appears  in  certain  races  of  men 
and  in  individuals  of  every  race.     In  every  school  there 
are  certain  fighting  boys;  in  every  society,  the  contra 
dicting  men  ;  in  every  town,  bravoes  and  bullies,  better 
or  worse  dressed,  fancy-men,  patrons  of  the  cock-pit  and 
the  ring.      Courage  is   temperamental,  scientific,  ideal. 
Swedeuborg  has  left  this  record  of  his  king :  "  Charles 
XII.,  of  Sweden,  did  not   know  what  that  was  which 
others  called  fear,  nor  what  that  spurious  valor  and  dar 
ing  that  is  excited  by  inebriating  draughts,  for  he  never 
tasted  any  liquid  but  pure  water.     Of  him  we  may  say, 
that  he  led  a  life  more  remote  from  death,  and  in  fact 
lived  more,  than  any  other  man."      It  was  told  of  the 
Prince  of  Conde,  "  that  there  not  being  a  more  furious 
man  in  the  world,  danger  in  fight   never   disturbs  him 


COURAGE. 


more  than  just  to  make  him  civil,  and  to  command  in 
words  of  great  obligation  to  his  officers  and  men,  and 
without  any  the  least  disturbance  to  his  judgment  or 
spirit."  Each  has  his  own  courage,  as  his  own  talent  ; 
but  the  courage  of  the  tiger  is  one,  and  of  the  horse 
another.  The  dog  that  scorns  to  fight,  will  fight  for  his 
master.  The  llama  that  will  carry  a  load  if  you  caress 
him,  will  refuse  food  and  die  if  he  is  scourged.  The  fury 
of  onset  is  one,  and  of  calm  endurance  another.  There  is 
a  courage  of  the  cabinet  as  well  as  a  courage  of  the  field  ; 
a  courage  of  manners  in  private  assemblies,  and  another 
in  public  assemblies  ;  a  courage  which  enables  one  man 
to  speak  masterly  to  a  hostile  company,  whilst  another 
man  who  can  easily  face  a  cannon's  mouth  dares  not  open 
his  own. 

There  is  a  courage  of  a  merchant  in  dealing  with  his 
trade,  by  which  dangerous  turns  of  affairs  are  met  and 
prevailed  over.  Merchants  recognize  as  much  gallantry, 
well  judged  too,  in  the  conduct  of  a  wise  and  upright 
man  of  business,  in  difficult  times,  as  soldiers  in  a  sol 

dier. 

There  is  a  courage  in  the  treatment  of  every  art  by  a 
master  in  architecture,  in  sculpture,  in  painting,  or  in 
poetry,  each  cheering  the  mind  of  the  spectator  or  re 
ceiver  as  by  true  strokes  of  genius,  which  yet  nowise 
implies  the  presence  of  physical  valor  in  the  artist.  This 
is  the  courage  of  genius,  in  every  kind.  A  certain  quan 
tity  of  power  belongs  to  a  certain  quantity  of  faculty. 
The  beautiful  voice  at  church  goes  sounding  on,  and  cov 
ers  up  in  its  volume,  as  in  a  cloak,  all  the  defects  of  the 
choir.  The  singers,  I  observe,  all  yield  to  it,  and  so  the 


COURAGE.  215 

fair  singer  indulges  her  instinct,  and  dares,  and  dares, 
because  she  knows  she  can. 

It  gives  the  cutting  edge  to  every  profession.     The 
judge  puts  his  mind  to  the  tangle  of  contradictions  in  the 
case,  squarely  accosts  the  question,  and,  by  not  being 
afraid  of  it,  by  dealing  with  it  as  business  which  must  be 
disposed  of,  he  sees  presently  that  common  arithmetic 
and  common  methods  apply  to  this  affair.     Perseverance 
strips   it  of  all  peculiarity,  and  ranges  it  on  the  same 
ground  as  other  business.    Morphy  played  a  daring  game 
in  chess :  the  daring  was  only  an  illusion  of  the  specta 
tor,  for  the  player  sees  his  move  to  be  well  fortified  and 
safe.     You  may  see  the  same  dealing  in  criticism ;  a  new 
book  astonishes  for  a  few  days,  takes  itself  out  of  com 
mon  jurisdiction,  and  nobody  knows  what  to  say  of  it : 
but  the    scholar  is  not   deceived.     The   old  principles 
which  books  exist  to  express  are  more  beautiful  than  any 
book;    and  out  of  love  of  the  reality  he  is  an  expert 
judge  how  far  the  book  has  approached  it  and  where  it 
has  come  short.     In  all  applications  't  is  the  same  power, 
-  the  habit  of  reference  to  one's  own  mind,  as  the  home 
of  all  truth  and  counsel,  and  which  can  easily  dispose  of 
any  book  because  it  can  very  well  do  without  all  books. 
When  a  confident  man  comes  into  a  company  magnifying 
this  or  that  author  he  has  freshly  read,  the  company  grow 
silent  and  ashamed  of  their  ignorance.     But  I  remember 
the  old  professor,  whose  searching  mind  engraved  every 
word   he  spoke  on  the  memory  of  the  class,  when  we 
asked  if  he  had  read  this  or  that  shining  novelty,  "  No, 
I  have  never  read  that  book  " ;  instantly  the  book  lost 
credit,  and  was  not  to  be  heard  of  again. 


216  COURAGE. 

Every  creature  1ms  a  courage  of  his  constitution  fit  for 
his  duties:  —Archimedes,  the  courage  of  a  geometer  to 
stick  to  his  diagram,  heedless  of  the  siege  and  sack  of 
the  city;  and  the  Roman  soldier  his  faculty  to  strike  at 
Archimedes.  Each  is  strong,  relying  on  his  own,  and 
each  is  betrayed  when  he  seeks  in  himself  the  courage  of 

others. 

Captain  John  Brown,  the  hero  of  Kansas,  said  to  me 
in  conversation,  that  "  for  a  settler  in  a  new  country,  one 
good,  believing,  strong-minded  man  is  worth  a  hundred, 
nay/a  thousand  men  without  character;  and  that  the 
right  men  will  give  a  permanent  direction  to  the  fortunes 
of  a  state.  As  for  the  bullying  drunkards,  of  which 
armies  are  usually  made  up,  he  thought  cholera,  small 
pox,  and  consumption  as  valuable  recruits."  He  held 
the  belief  that  courage  and  chastity  are  silent  concerning 
themselves.  He  said,  "  As  soon  as  I  hear  one  of  my 
men  say,  <  Ah,  let  me  only  get  my  eye  on  such  a  man, 
I'll  bring  him  down,'  I  don't  expect  much  aid  in  the 
fight  from  that  talker.  'T  is  the  quiet,  peaceable  men, 
the  men  of  principle,  that  make  the  best  soldiers." 

"  'T  is  still  observed  those  men  most  valiant  are 
Who  are  most  modest  ere  they  came  to  war." 

True  courage  is  not  ostentatious ;  men  who  wish  to 
inspire  terror  seem  thereby  to  confess  themselves  cow 
ards.  Why  do  they  rely  on  it,  but  because  they  know 
how  potent  it  is  with  themselves? 

The  true  temper  has  genial  influences.  It  makes  a 
bond  of  union  between  enemies.  Governor  Wise  of 
Virginia,  in  the  record  of  his  first  interviews  with  his 


COURAGE.  217 

prisoner,  appeared  to  great  advantage.  If  Governor 
Wise  is  a  superior  man,  or  inasmuch  as  he  is  a  superior 
man,  he  distinguishes  John  Brown.  As  they  confer, 
they  understand  each  other  swiftly;  each  respects  the 
other.  If  opportunity  allowed,  they  would  prefer  each 
other's  society  and  desert  their  former  companions.  En 
emies  would  become  affectionate.  Hector  and  Achilles, 
liichard  and  Saladin,  Wellington  and  Soult,  General 
Daumas  and  Abdcl  Kader,  become  aware  that  they  are 
nearer  and  more  alike  than  any  other  two,  and,  if  their 
nation  and  circumstance  did  not  keep  them  apart,  would 
run  into  each  other's  arms. 

See  too  what  good  contagion  belongs  to  it.  Every 
where  it  finds  its  own  with  magnetic  affinity.  Courage 
of  the  soldier  awakes  the  courage  of  woman.  Florence 
Nightingale  brings  lint  and  the  blessing  of  her  shadow. 
Heroic  women  offer  themselves  as  nurses  of  the  brave 
veteran.  The  troop  of  Virginian  infantry  that  had 
marched  to  guard  the  prison  of  John  Brown  ask  leave 
to  pay  their  respects  to  the  prisoner.  Poetry  and  elo 
quence  catch  the  hint,  and  soar  to  a  pitch  unknown  be 
fore.  Everything  feels  the  new  breath,  except  the  old 
doting,  nigh-dead  politicians,  whose  heart  the  trumpet 
of  resurrection  could  not  wake. 

The  charm  of  the  best  courages  is  that  they  are  inven 
tions,  inspirations,  flashes  of  genius.  The  hero  could  not 
have  done  the  feat  at  another  hour,  in  a  lower  mood. 
The  best  act  of  the  marvellous  genius  of  Greece  was  its 
first  act ;  not  in  the  statue  or  the  Parthenon,  but  in  the 
instinct  which,  at  Thermopyta,  'held  Asia  at  bay,  kept 
Asia  out  of  Europe,  —  Asia  with  its  antiquities  and  or- 
10 


218  COURAGE. 

ganic  slavery,— from  corrupting  the  hope  and  new  morn 
ing  of  the  West.  The  statue,  the  architecture,  were  the 
later  and  inferior  creation  of  the  same  genius.  In  view 
of  this  moment  of  history,  we  recognize  a  certain  pro 
phetic  instinct  better  than  wisdom.  Napoleon  said  well, 
"My  hand  is  immediately  connected  with  my  head"; 
but  the  sacred  courage  is  connected  with  the  heart. 
The  head  is  a  half,  a  fraction,  until  it  is  enlarged  and  in 
spired  by  the  moral  sentiment.  For  it  is  not  the  means 
on  which  we  draw,  as  health  or  wealth,  practical  skill  or 
dexterous  talent,  or  multitudes  of  followers,  that  count, 
but  the  aims  only.  The  aim  reacts  back  on  the  means. 
A  great  aim  aggrandizes  the  means.  The  meal  and 
water  that  are  the  commissariat  of  the  forlorn  hope  that 
stake  their  lives  to  defend  the  pass  are  sacred  as  the 
Holy  Grail,  or  as  if  one  had  eyes  to  see  in  chemistry  the 
fuel  that  is  rushing  to  feed  the  sun. 

There  is  a  persuasion  in  the  soul  of  man  that  he  is 
here  for  cause,  that  he  was  put  down  in  this  place  by 
the  Creator,  to  do  the  work  for  which  he  inspires  him, 
that  thus  he  is  an  overmatch  for  all  antagonists  that 
could  combine  against  him.  The  pious  Mrs.  Hutchin- 
son  says  of  some  passages  in  the  defence  of  Nottingham 
against  the  Cavaliers,  "  It  was  a  great  instruction  that 
the  best  and  highest  courages  are  beams  of  the  Al 
mighty."  And  whenever  the  religious  sentiment  is  ade 
quately  affirmed,  it  must  be  with  dazzling  courage.  As 
long  as  it  is  cowardly  insinuated,  as  with  the  wish  to 
succor  some  partial  and  ^temporary  interest,  or  to  make 
it  affirm  some  pragmatical  tenet  which  our  parish  church 
receives  to-day,  it  is  not  imparted,  and  cannot  inspire 


COURAGE.  210 

or  create.  For  it  is  always  new,  leads  and  surprises, 
and  practice  never  comes  up  with  it.  There  are  ever 
appearing  in  the  world  men  who,  almost  as  soon  as 
they  are  born,  take  a  bee-line  to  the  rack  of  the  inquis 
itor,  the  axe  of  the  tyrant,  like  Jordano  Bruno,  Vani- 
ni,  Huss,  Paul,  Jesus,  and  Socrates.  Look  at  Fox's 
Lives  of  the  Martyrs,  Sewel's  History  of  the  Quakers, 
Southey's  Book  of  the  Church,  at  the  folios  of  the 
Brothers  Bollandi,  who  collected  the  lives  of  twenty- 
five  thousand  martyrs,  confessors,  ascetics,  and  self-tor 
mentors.  There  is  much  of  fable,  but  a  broad  basis  of 
fact.  The  tender  skin  does  not  shrink  from  bayonets, 
the  timid  woman  is  not  scared  by  fagots ;  the  rack  is  not 
frightful,  nor  the  rope  ignominious.  The  poor  Puritan, 
Antony  Parsons,  at  the  stake,  tied  straw  on  his  head, 
when  the  fire  approached  him,  and  said,  "  This  is  God's 
hat."  Sacred  courage  indicates  that  a  man  loves  an 
idea  better  than  all  things  in  the  world ;  that  he  is  aim 
ing  neither  at  pelf  or  comfort,  but  will  venture  all  to 
put  in  act  the  invisible  thought  in  his  mind.  He  is  ev 
erywhere  a  liberator,  but  of  a  freedom  that  is  ideal ;  not 
seeking  to  have  land  or  money  or  conveniences,  but  to 
have  no  other  limitation  than  that  which  his  own  consti 
tution  imposes.  He  is  free  to  speak  truth ;  he  is  not  free 
to  lie.  He  wishes  to  break  every  yoke  all  over  the  world 
which  hinders  his  brother  from  acting  after  his  thought. 

There  are  degrees  of  courage,  and  each  step  upward 
makes  us  acquainted  with  a  higher  virtue.  Let  us  say 
then  frankly  that  the  education  of  the  will  is  the  object 
of  our  existence.  Poverty,  the  prison,  the  rack,  the  fire, 
the  hatred  and  execrations  of  our  fellow-men,  appear 


220  COURAGE. 

trials  beyond  the  endurance  of  common  humanity ;  hut 
to  the  hero  whose  intellect  is  aggrandized  by  the  soul, 
and  so  measures  those  penalties  against  the  good  which 
his  thought  surveys,  these  terrors  vanish  as  darkness  at 
sunrise. 

We  have  little  right  in  piping  times  of  peace  to  pro 
nounce  on  these  rare  heights  of  character;  but  there  is 
no  assurance  of  security.  In  the  most  private  life,  diffi 
cult  duty  is  never  far  off.  Therefore  we  must  think  with 
courage.  Scholars  and  thinkers  are  prone  to  an  effemi 
nate  habit,  and  shrink  if  a  coarser  shout  comes  up  from 
the  street,  or  a  brutal  act  is  recorded  in  the  journals. 
The  Medical  College  piles  up  in  its  museum  its  grim 
monsters  of  morbid  anatomy,  and  there  are  melancholy 
sceptics  with  a  taste  for  carrion  who  batten  on  the  hid 
eous,  facts  in  history,  — persecutions,  inquisitions,  St. 
Bartholomew  massacres,  devilish  lives,  Nero,  Ctcsar  Bor 
gia,  Marat,  Lopez,  —  men  in  whom  every  ray  of  human 
ity  was  extinguished,  parricides,  matricides,  and  whatever 
moral  monsters.  These  are  not  cheerful  facts,  but  they 
do  not  disturb  a  healthy  mind;  they  require  of  us  a 
patience  as  robust  as  the  energy  that  attacks  us,  and  an 
unresting  exploration  of  final  causes.  Wolf,  snake,  and 
crocodile  are  not  inharmonious  in  nature,  but  are  made 
useful  as  checks,  scavengers,  and  pioneers  ;  and  we  must 
have  a  scope  as  large  as  Nature's  to  deal  with  beast-like 
men,  detect  what  scullion  function  is  assigned  them,  and 
foresee  in  the  secular  melioration  of  the  planet  how  these 
will  become  unnecessary,  and  will  die  out. 

He  has  not  learned  the  lesson  of  life  who  does  not 
every  day  surmount  a  fear.     I  do  not  wish  to  put  myself 


COURAGE.  221 

or  any  man  into  a  theatrical  position,  or  urge  him  to  ape 
the  courage  of  his  comrade.  Have  the  courage  not  to 
adopt  another's  courage.  There  is  scope  and  cause  and 
resistance  enough  for  us  in  our  proper  work  and  circum 
stance.  And  there  is  no  creed  of  an  honest  man,  be 
lie  Christian,  Turk,  or  Gentoo,  which  does  not  equally 
preach  it.  If  you  have  no  faith  in  beneficent  power 
above  you,  but  see  only  an  adamantine  fate  coiling  its 
folds  about  nature  and  man,  then  reflect  that  the  best  use 
of  fate  is  to  teach  us  courage,  if  only  because  baseness 
cannot  change  the  appointed  event.  If  you  accept  your 
thoughts  as  inspirations  from  the  Supreme  Intelligence, 
obey  them  when  they  prescribe  difficult  duties,  because 
thsy  come  only  so  long  as  they  are  used ;  or,  if  your  scep 
ticism  reaches  to  the  last  verge,  and  you  have  no  confi 
dence  in  any  foreign  mind,  then  be  brave,  because  there 
is  one  good  opinion  which  must  always  be  of  conse 
quence  to  you,  namely,  your  own. 


I  am  permitted  to  enrich  my  chapter  by  adding  an 
anecdote  of  pure  courage  from  real  life,  as  narrated  in  a 
ballad  by  a  lady  to  whom  all  the  particulars  of  the  fact 
are  exactly  known. 

GEORGE   NIDIVER. 

Men  have  done  brave  deeds, 

And  bards  have  sung  them  well : 

I  of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  the  tale  will  tell. 


222  COURAGE. 

In  California!!  mountains 
A  hunter  bold  was  he  : 

Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 
As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  hoy 

Followed  him  everywhere, 

Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 
The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  hird  or  deer 
Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill, 

The  boy  was  always  near 

To  help  with  right  good- will. 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep, 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left, 
Their  questing  way  they  keep, 

They  sec  two  grizzly  bears 
With  hunger  tierce  and  fell 

Rush  at  them  unawares 

« 

Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams, 
And  ran  with  terror  wild  ; 

One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 
Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 

The  hunter  raised  his  gun,  — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all,  — 

And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  foe 
lie  sent  his  only  ball. 


COURAGE.  223 

The  other  on  George  Nidiver 

Came  on  with  dreadful  pace  : 
The  hunter  stood  unarmed, 

And  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  say  unarmed  he  stood. 

Against  those  frightful  paws 
The  rifle  but,  or  club  of  wood, 

Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 

George  Nidiver  stood  still 

And  looked  him  in  the  face  ; 
The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed, 

Then  came  with  slackening  pace. 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood, 

Although  his  heart  beat  high  ; 
Again  the  creature  stopped, 

And  gazed  with  wondering  eye. 

The  hunter  met  his  gaze, 

Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way  ; 
The  bear  turned  slowly  round, 

And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 

It  would  be  hard  to  spell : 
What  thoughts  were  in  George  Nidiver 

I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim, 

Swift  choice  of  generous  part, 
Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 

The  depths  of  a  brave  heart. 


SUCCESS 


10* 


SUCCESS. 


OUR  American  people  cannot  be  taxed  with  slowness 
in  performance  or  in  praising  their  performance.  The 
earth  is  shaken  by  our  engineries.  We  are  feeling  our 
youth  and  nerve  and  bone.  We  have  the  power  of  ter 
ritory  and  of  sea-coast,  and  know  the  use  of  these.  We 
count  our  census,  we  read  our  growing  valuations,  we 
survey  our  map,  which  becomes  old  in  a  year  or  two.  Our 
eyes  run  approvingly  along  the  lengthened  lines  of  rail 
road  and  telegraph.  We  have  gone  nearest  to  the  Pole. 
We  have  discovered  the  Antarctic  continent.  We  inter 
fere  in  Central  and  South  America,  at  Canton,  and  in 
Japan ;  we  are  adding  to  an  already  enormous  territory. 
Our  political  constitution  is  the  hope  of  the  world,  and 
we  value  ourselves  on  all  these  feats. 

'T  is  the  way  of  the  world  ;  't  is  the  law  of  youth,  and 
of  unfolding  strength.  Men  are  made  each  with  some 
triumphant  superiority,  which,  through  some  adaptation 
of  fingers,  or  ear,  or  eye,  or  ciphering,  or  pugilistic  or 
musical  or  literary  craft,  enriches  the  community  with 
a  new  art ;  and  not  only  we,  but  all  men  of  European 
stock,  value  these  certificates.  Giotto  could  draw  a  per 
fect  circle  ;  Erwiu  of  Steinbach  could  build  a  minster ; 
Olaf,  king  of  Norway,  could  run  round  his  galley  on  the 


228  SUCCESS. 

blades  of  the  oars  of  the  rowers,  when  the  ship  was  in 
motion  ;  Ojeda  could  run  out  swiftly  on  a  plank  pro 
jected  from  the  top  of  a  tower,  turn  round  swiftly,  and 
come  back;  Evelyn  writes  from  .Home :  "13eniini,  the 
Florentine  sculptor,  architect,  painter^  and  poet,  a  little 
before  my  coming  to  Rome,  gave  a  public  opera,  where 
in  he  painted  the  scenes,  cut  the  statues,  invented  the 
engines,  composed  the  music,  writ  the  comedy,  and  built 
the  theatre." 

"There  is  nothing  in  war,"  said  Napoleon,  "which 
I  cannot  do  by  my  own  hands.  If  there  is  nobody  to 
make  gunpowder,  I  can  manufacture  it.  The  gun-car 
riages  I  know  how  to  construct.  If  it  is  necessary  to 
make  cannons  at  the  forge,  I  can  make  them.  The  de 
tails  of  working  them  in  batl  le,  if  it  is  necessary  to  teach, 
I  shall  teach  them.  In  administration,  it  is  I  alone  who 
have  arranged  the  finances,  as  you  know." 

It  is  recorded  of  Linnaeus,  among  many  proofs  of  his 
beneficent  skill,  that  when  the  timber  in  the  ship-yards 
of  Sweden  was  ruined  by  rot,  Linnaeus  was  desired  by 
the  government  to  find  a  remedy.  lie  studied  the  in 
sects  that  infested  the  timber,  and  found  that  they  laid 
their  eggs  in  the  logs  within  certain  days  in  April,  and 
lie  directed  that  during  ten  days  at  that  season  the  logs 
should  be  immersed  under  water  in  the  docks;  which 
being  done,  the  timber  was  found  to  be  uninjured. 

Columbus  at  Veragua  found  plenty  of  gold ;  but  leav 
ing  the  coast,  the  ship  full  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
skilful  seamen,  —  some  of  them  old  pilots,  and  with  too 
much  experience  of  their  craft  and  treachery  to  him,  — 
the  wise  admiral  kept  his  private  record  of  his  homeward 


SUCCESS.  229 

path.  And  when  he  reached  Spain,  he  told  the  King 
and  Queen,  "  that  they  may  ask  all  the  pilots  who  came 
with  him,  where  is  Veragua.  Let  them  answer  and  say, 
it'  they  know  where  Veragua  lies.  I  assert  that  they 
can  give  no  other  account  than  that  they  went  to  lands 
where  there  was  abundance  of  gold,  but  they  do  not 
know  the  way  to  return  thither,  but  would  be  obliged 
to  go  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  as  much  as  if  they  had 
never  been  there  before.  There  is  a  mode  of  reckon 
ing,"  he  proudly  adds,  "  derived  from  astronomy,  which 
is  sure  and  safe  to  any  who  understands  it." 

Hippocrates  in  Greece  knew  how  to  stay  the  devour 
ing  plague  which  ravaged  Athens  in  his  time,  and  his 
skill  died  with  him.  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush,  in  Philadel 
phia,  carried  that  city  heroically  through  the  yellow  fever 
of  the  year  1793.  Leverrier  carries  the  Copernican  sys 
tem  in  his  head,  and  knew  where  to  look  for  the  new 
planet.  We  have  seen  an  American  woman  write  a  novel 
of  which  a  million  copies  were  sold  in  all  languages,  and 
which  had  one  merit,  of  speaking  to  the  universal  heart, 
and  was  read  with  equal  interest  to  three  audiences, 
namely,  in  the  parlor,  in  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  nursery 
of  every  house.  We  have  seen  women  who  could  in 
stitute  hospitals  and  schools  in  armies.  We  have  seen 
a  woman  who  by  pure  song  could  melt  the  souls  of 
whole  populations.  And  there  is  no  limit  to  these  vari 
eties  of  talent. 

These  are  arts  to  be  thankful  for,  — cacli  one  as  it  is 
a  new  direction  of  human  power.  We  cannot  choose  but 
respect  them.  Our  civilization  is  made  up  of  a  million 
contributions  of  this  kind.  For  success,  to  be  sure,  we 


230  SUCCESS. 

esteem  it  a  test  in  other  people,  since  we  do  first  in  our 
selves.  We  respect  ourselves  more  if  we  have  succeeded. 
Neither  do  we  grudge  to  each  of  these  benefactors  the 
praise  or  the  profit  which  accrues  from  his  industry. 

Here  are  already  quite  different  degrees  of  moral 
merit  in  these  examples.  I  don't  know  but  we  and 
our  race  elsewhere  set  a  higher  value  on  wealth,  victory, 
and  coarse  superiority  of  all  kinds,  than  other  men,  — 
have  less  tranquillity  of  mind,  are  less  easily  contented. 
The  Saxon  is  taught  from  his  infancy  to  wish  to  be 
first.  The  Norseman  was  a  restless  rider,  fighter,  free 
booter.  The  ancient  Norse  ballads  describe  him  as 
afflicted  with  this  inextinguishable  thirst  of  victory.  The 
mother  says  to  her  son :  — 

"  Success  shall  be  in  ihy  courser  tall, 
Success  in  thyself,  which  is  best  of  all, 
Success  in  thy  hand,  success  in  thy  foot, 
In  struggle  with  man,  in  battle  with  brute  :  — 
The  holy  God  and  Saint  Drothin  dear 
Shall  never  shut  eyes  on  thy  career  ; 

Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonvcd !  " 

These  feats  that  we  extol  do  not  signify  so  much  as 
we  say.  These  boasted  arts  are  of  very  recent  origin. 
They  are  local  conveniences,  but  do  not  really  add  to 
our  stature.  The  greatest  men  of  the  world  have  man 
aged  not  to  want  them.  Newton  was  a  great  man,  with 
out  telegraph,  or  gas,  or  steam-coach,  or  rubber  shoes,  or 
lueifer-matchcs,  or  ether  for  his  pain  ;  so  was  Shakspearc, 
and  Alfred,  and  Scipio,  and  Socrates.  These  are  local 
conveniences,  but  how  easy  to  go  now  to  parts  of  the 


SUCCESS.  231 

world  where  not  only  all  these  arts  are  wanting,  but 
where  they  are  despised.  The  Arabian  sheiks,  the  most 
digniiied  people  in  the  planet,  do  not  want  them;  yet 
have  as  much  self-respect  as  the  English,  and  are  easily 
able  to  impress  the  Frenchman  or  the  American  who 
visits  them  with  the  respect  due  to  a  brave  and  sufficient 
man. 

These  feats  have,  to  be  sure,  great  difference  of  merit 
and  some  of  them  involve  power  of  a  high  kind.  But 
the  public  values  the  invention  more  than  the  inventor 
does.  The  inventor  knows  there  is  much  more  and  bet 
ter  where  this  came  from.  The  public  sees  in  it  a  lucra 
tive  secret.  Men  see  the  reward  which  the  inventor 
enjoys,  and  they  think,  "How  shall  we  win  that?" 
Cause  and  effect  are  a  little  tedious ;  how  to  leap  to  the 
result  by  short  or  by  false  means  ?  We  are  not  scrupu 
lous.  What  we  ask  is  victory,  without  regard  to  the 
cause  ;  after  the  Rob  Hoy  rule,  after  the  Napoleon  rule, 
to  be  the  strongest  to-day,  —the  way  of  the  Talleyrands, 
—  prudent  people,  whose  watches  go  faster  than  their 
neighbors',  and  who  detect  the  first  moment  of  decline, 
and  throw  themselves  on  the  instant  on  the  winning  side. 
I  have  heard  that  Nelson  used  to  say,  "  Never  mind  the 
justice  or  the  impudence,  only  let  me  succeed."  Lord 
Brougham's  single  duty  of  counsel  is,  "  to  get  the  pris 
oner  clear."  Fuller  says  't  is  a  maxim  of  lawyers,  "  that 
a  crown  once  worn  cleareth  all  defects  of  the  wearer 
thereof."  llien  ne  rewsit  mieux  que  le  succcs.  And  we 
Americans  are  tainted  with  this  insanity,  as  our  bank 
ruptcies  and  our  reckless  politics  may  show.  We  are 
great  by  exclusion,  grasping,  and  egotism.  Our  success 


232  SUCCESS. 

takes  from  all  what  it  gives  to  one.  'T  is  a  haggard, 
malignant,  careworn  running  for  luck. 

Egotism  is  a  kind  of  buckram  that  gives  momentary 
strength  and  concentration  to  men,  and  seems  to  be  much 
used  in  nature  for  fabrics  in  which  local  and  spasmodic 
energy  is  required.  I  could  point  to  men  in  this  country 
of  indispensable  importance  to  the  carrying  on  of  Ameri 
can  life,  of  this  humor,  whom  we  could  ill  spare  ;  any  one 
of  them  would  be  a  national  loss.  But  it  spoils  conver 
sation.  They  will  not  try  conclusions  with  you.  They 
are  ever  thrusting  this  pampered  self  between  you  and 
them.  It  is  plain  they  have  a  long  education  to  undergo 
to  reach  simplicity  and  plain-dealing,  which  are  what  a 
wise  man  mainly  cares  for  in  his  companion.  Nature 
knows  how  to  convert  evil  to  good;  Nature  utilizes 
misers,  fanatics,  show-men,  egotists,  to  accomplish  her 
ends ;  but  we  must  not  think  better  of  the  foible  for  that. 
The  passion  for  sudden  success  is  rude  and  puerile,  just 
as  war,  cannons,  and  executions  are  used  to  clear  the 
ground  of  bad,  lumpish,  irreclaimable  savages,  but  al 
ways  to  the  damage  of  the  conquerors. 

1  hate  this  shallow  Americanism  which  hopes  to  get 
rich  by  credit,  to  get  knowledge  by  raps  on  midnight 
tables,  to  learn  the  economy  of  the  mind  by  phrenology, 
or  skill  without  study,  or  mastery  without  apprentice 
ship,  or  the  sale  of  goods  through  pretending  that  they 
sell,  or  power  through  making  believe  you  are  power 
ful,  or  through  a  packed  jury  or  caucus,  bribery  and 
"repeating"  votes,  or  wealth  by  fraud.  They  think  they 
have  got  it,  but  they  have  got  something  etee,  —  a  crime 
which  calls  for  another  crime,  and  another  devil  behind 


SUCCESS.  233 

that ;  these  are  steps  to  suicide,  infamy,  and  the  harming 
of  mankind.  We  countenance  each  other  in  this  life  of 
show,  puffing,  advertisement,  and  manufacture  of  public 
opinion  ;  and  excellence  is  lost  sight  of  in  the  hunger  for 
sudden  performance  and  praise. 

There  was  a  wise  man,  an  Italian  artist,  Michel  An- 
gclo,  who  writes  thus  of  himself :  "  Meanwhile  the  Car 
dinal  Ippolito,  in  whom  all  my  best  hopes  were  placed, 
being  dead,  I  began  to  understand  that  the  promises  of 
this  world  are,  for  the  most  part,  vain  phantoms,  and 
that  to  confide  in  one's  self,  and  become  something  of 
worth  and  value,  is  the  best  and  safest  course."  Now, 
though  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  the  reader  will  assent 
to  all  my  propositions,  yet  I  think  we  shall  agree  in  my 
first  rule  for  success,  —  that  we  shall  drop  the  brag  and 
the  advertisement,  and  take  Michel  Angelo's  course,  "to 
confide  in  one's  self,  and  be  something  of  worth  and 
value." 

Each  man  has  an  aptitude  born  with  him  to  do  easily 
some  feat  impossible  to  any  other.  Do  your  work.  I 
have  to  say  this  often,  but  nature  says  it  oftener.  'T  is 
clownish  to  insist  on  doing  all  with  one's  own  hands,  as 
if  every  man  should  build  his  own  clumsy  house,  forge 
his  hammer,  and  bake  his  dough ;  but  he  is  to  dare  to  do 
what  he  can  do  best ;  not  help  others  as  they  would  di 
rect  him,  but  as  he  knows  his  helpful  power  to  be.  To 
do  otherwise  is  to  neutralize  all  those  extraordinary 
special  talents  distributed  among  men.  Yet,  whilst  this 
self-truth  is  essential  to  the  exhibition  of  the  world  and 
to  the  growth  and  glory  of  each  mind,  it  is  rare  to  find 
a  man  who  believes  his  own  thought  or  who  speaks  that 


234  SUCCESS. 

\vliich  he  was  created  to  say.  As  nothing  astonishes  men 
so  much  as  common-sense  and  plain-dealing,  so  nothing 
is  more  rare  in  any  man  than  an  act  of  his  own.  Any 
work  looks  wonderful  to  him,  except  that  which  he  can 
do.  We  do  not  believe  our  own  thought;  we  must 
serve  somebody ;  we  must  quote  somebody  ;  we  dote  on 
the  old  and  the  distant ;  we  are  tickled  by  great  names  ; 
we  import  the  religion  of  other  nations  ;  we  quote  their 
opinions ;  we  cite  their  laws.  The  gravest  and  learned- 
est  courts  in  this  country  shudder  to  face  a  new  question, 
and  will  wait  months  and  years  for  a  case  to  occur  that 
can  be  tortured  into  a  precedent,  and  thus  throw  on  a 
bolder  party  the  onus  of  an  initiative.  Thus  AVC  do  not 
carry  a  counsel  in  our  breasts,  or  do  not  know  it ;  and 
because  we  cannot  shake  off  from  our  shoes  this  dust  of 
Europe  and  Asia,  the  world  seems  to  be  born  old,  society 
is  under  a  spell,  every  man  is  a  borrower  and  a  mimic, 
'  life  is  theatrical,  and  literature  a  quotation  ;  and  hence 
that  depression  of  spirits,  that  furrow  of  care,  said  to 
mark  every  American  brow. 

Self-trust  is  the  fust  secret  of  success,  the  belief  that, 
if  you  are  here,  the  authorities  of  the  universe  put  you 
here,  and  for  cause,  or  with  some  task  strictly  appointed 
you  in  your  constitution,  and  so  long  as  you  work  at 
that  you  are  well  and  successful.  It  by  no  means  con 
sists  in  rushing  prematurely  to  a  showy  feat  that  shall 
catch  the  eye  and  satisfy  spectators.  It  is  enough  if  you 
work  in  the  right  direction.  So  far  from  the  perform 
ance  being  the  real  success,  it  is  clear  that  the  success 
was  much  earlier  than  that,  namely,  when  all  the  feats 
that  make  our  civility  were  the  thoughts  of  good  heads. 


SUCCESS.  235 

The  fame  of  eacli  discovery  rightly  attaches  to  the  mind 
that  made  the  formula  which  contains  all  the  details,  and 
not  to  the  manufacturers  who  now  make  their  gain  by 
it;  although  the  mob  uniformly  cheers  the  publisher, 
and  not  the  inventor.  It  is  the  dulness  of  the  multitude 
that  they  cannot  see  the  house,  in  the  ground-plan ;  the 
working,  in  the  model  of  the  projector.  Whilst  it  is  a 
thought,  though  it  were  a  new  fuel,  or  a  new  food,  or 
the  creation  of  agriculture,  it  is  cried  down;  it  is  a 
chimera :  but  when  it  is  a  fact,  and  comes  in  the  shape 
of  eight  per  cent,  ten  per  cent,  a  hundred  per  cent,  they 
cry,  "  It  is  the  voice  of  God."  Horatio  Grecnough,  the 
sculptor,  said  to  me  of  Robert  Fulton's  visit  to  Paris : 
"  Fulton  knocked  at  the  door  of  Napoleon  with  steam, 
and  was  rejected ;  and  Napoleon  lived  long  enough  to 
know  that  he  had  excluded  a  greater  power  than  his 
own." 

Is  there  no  loving  of  knowledge,  and  of  art,  and  of 
our  design,  for  itself  alone  ?  Cannot  we  please  ourselves 
with  performing  our  work,  or  gaining  truth  and  power, 
without  being  praised  for  it  ?  I  gain  my  point,  I  gain 
all  points,  if  I  can  reach  my  companion  with  any  state 
ment  which  teaches  him  his  own  worth.  The  sum  of 
wisdom  is,  that  the  time  is  never  lost  that  is  devoted  to 
work.  The  good  workman  never  says,  "  There,  that  will 
do  "  ;  but,  "  There,  that  is  it :  try  it,  and  come  again,  it 
will  last  always."  If  the  artist,  in  whatever  art,  is  well 
at  work  on  his  own  design,  it  signifies  little  that  he  does 
not  yet  find  orders  or  customers.  I  pronounce  that 
young  man  happy  who  is  content  with  having  acquired 
the  skill  which  he  had  aimed  at,  and  waits  willingly  when 


236  SUCCESS. 

the  occasion  of  making  it  appreciated  shall  arrive,  know- 
ing  well  that  it  will  not  loiter.  The  time  your  rival 
spends  in  dressing  up  his  work  for  effect,  hastily,  and  for 
the  market,  you  spend  in  study  and  experiments  towards 
real  knowledge  and  efficiency,  lie  has  therchy  sold  his 
picture  or  machine,  or  won  the  prize,  or  got  the  appoint 
ment  ;  but  you  have  raised  yourself  into  a  higher  school 
of  art,  and  a  few  years  will  show  the  advantage  of  the  real 
master  over  the  short  popularity  of  the  showman.  I 
know  it  is  a  nice  point  to  discriminate  this  self-trust, 
which  is  the  pledge  of  all  mental  vigor  and  performance, 
from  the  disease  to  which  it  is  allied, — the  exaggera 
tion  of  the  part  which  we  can  play  ;  —  yet  they  are  two 
things.  But  it  is  sanity  to  know,  that,  over  my  talent 
or  knack,  and  a  million  times  better  than  any  talent,  is 
the  central  intelligence  which  subordinates  and  uses  all 
talents ;  and  it  is  only  as  a  door  into  this,  that  any  tal 
ent  or  the  knowledge  it  gives  is  of  value.  He  only 
who  comes  into  this  central  intelligence,  in  which  no 
egotism  or  exaggeration  can  be,  comes  into  self-posses 
sion. 

My  next  point  is  that,  in  the  scale  of  powers,  it  is  not 
talent,  but  sensibility,  which  is  best :  talent  confines,  but 
the  central  life  puts  us  in  relation  to  all.  How  often  it 
seems  the  chief  good  to  be  born  with  a  cheerful  temper, 
and  well  adjusted  to  the  tone  of  the  human  race.  Such 
a  man  feels  himself  in  harmony,  and  conscious  by  his 
receptivity  of  an  infinite  strength.  Like  Alfred,  "good 
fortune  accompanies  him  like  a  gift  of  God."  Feel  your 
self,  and  be  not  daunted  by  things.  'T  is  the  fulness  of 
man  that  runs  over  into  objects,  and  makes  his  Bibles 


SUCCESS.  237 

and  Shakspeares  and  Homers  so  great.  The  joyful  reader 
borrows  of  his  own  ideas  to  fill  their  faulty  outline,  and 
knows  not  that  he  borrows  and  gives. 

There  is  something  of  poverty  in  our  criticism.  We 
assume  that  there  are  few  great  men,  all  the  rest  are  lit 
tle  ;  that  there  is  but  one  Homer,  but  one  Shakspeare, 
one  Newton,  one  Socrates.  But  the  soul  in  her  beaming 
hour  does  not  acknowledge  these  usurpations.  We  should 
know  how  to  praise  Socrates,  or  Plato,  or  Saint  John, 
without  impoverishing  us.  In  good  hours  we  do  not 
find  Shakspeare  or  Homer  over-great,  —  only  to  have 
been  translators  of  the  happy  present,  —  and  every  man 
and  woman  divine  possibilities.  'T  is  the  good  reader  : 
that  makes  the  good  book  ;  a  good  head  cannot  read 
amiss :  in  every  book  lie  finds  passages  which  seem  con 
fidences  or  asides  hidden  from  all  else  and  unmistakably 
meant  for  his  ear. 

The  light  by  which  we  see  in  this  world  comes  out 
from  the  soul  of  the  observer.  Wherever  any  noble  sen 
timent  dwelt,  it  made  the  faces  and  houses  around  to 
shine.  Nay,  the  powers  of  this  busy  brain  are  miracu 
lous  and  illimitable.  Therein  are  the  rules  and  formulas 
by  which  the  whole  empire  of  matter  is  worked.  There 
is  no  prosperity,  trade,  art,  city,  or  great  material  wealth 
of  any  kind,  but  if  you  trace  it  home,  you  will  find  it 
rooted  in  a  thought  of 'some  individual  man. 

Is  all  life  a  surface  affair?  'T  is  curious,  but  our  dif 
ference  of  wit  appears  to  be  only  a  difference  of  impres 
sionability,  or  power  to  appreciate  faint,  fainter,  and 
infinitely  faintest  voices  and  visions.  When  the  scholar 
or  the  writer  has  pumped  his  brain  for  thoughts  and 


238  SUCCESS. 

verses,  and  then  comes  abroad  into  Nature,  lias  he  never 
found  that  there  is  a  better  poetry  hinted  in  a  boy's  whis 
tle  of  a  tune,  or  in  the  piping  of  a  sparrow,  than  in  all  his 
literary  results  ?  We  call  it  heallh.  What  is  so  admira 
ble  as  the  health  of  youth  ?  —  with  his  long  days  because 
his  eyes  are  good,  and  brisk  circulations  keep  him  warm 
in  cold  rooms,  and  he  loves  books  that  speak  to  the  im 
agination  ;  and  he  can  read  Plato,  covered  to  his  chin 
with  a  cloak  in  a  cold  upper  chamber,  though  he  should 
associate  the  Dialogues  ever  after  with  a  woollen  smell. 
'T  is  the  bane  of  life  that  natural  effects  are  continually 
crowded  out,  and  artificial  arrangements  substituted. 
We  remember  when,  in  early  youth,  the  earth  spoke 
and  the  heavens  glowed ;  when  an  evening,  any  evening, 
grim  and  wintry,  sleet  and  snow,  was  enough  for  us;  the 
houses  were  in  the  air.  Now  it  costs  a  rare  combination 
of  clouds  and  lights  to  overcome  the  common  and  mean. 
What  is  it  we  look  for  in  the  landscape,  in  sunsets  and 
sunrises,  in  the  sea  and  the  firmament?  what  but  a 
compensation  for  the  cramp  and  pettiness  of  human  per 
formances  ?  We  bask  in  the  day,  and  the  mind  finds 
somewhat  as  great  as  itself.  In  Nature,  all  is  large,  mas 
sive  repose.  Remember  what  befalls  a  city  boy  who  goes 
for  the  first  time  into  the  October  woods.  He  is  sud 
denly  initiated  into  a  pomp  and  glory  that  brings  to  pass 
for  him  the  dreams  of  romance.  He  is  the  king  he 
dreamed  he  was  ;  he  walks  through  tents  of  gold,  through 
bowers  of  crimson,  porphyry,  and  topaz,  pavilion  on 
pavilion,  garlanded  with  vines,  flowers,  and  sunbeams, 
with  incense  and  music,  with  so  many  hints  to  his  aston 
ished  senses ;  the  leaves  twinkle  and  pique  and  flatter 


SUCCESS.  239 

him,  and  bis  eye  and  step  are  tempted  on  by  what  hazy 
distances  to  happier  solitudes.  All  this  happiness  he 
owes  only  to  his  finer  perception.  The  owner  of  the 
wood-lot  finds  only  a  number  of  discolored  trees,  and 
says,  "  They  ought  to  come  down ;  they  are  n't  grow 
ing  any  better;  they  should  be  cut  and  corded  before 
spring." 

Wordsworth  writes  of  the  delights  of  the  boy  in 
Nature :  — 

"  For  never  will  come  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower." 

But  I  have  just  seen  a  man,  well  knowing  what  he  spoke 
of,  who  told  me  that  the  verse  was  not  true  for  him  ;  that 
his  eyes  opened  as  he  grew  older,  and  that  every  spring 
was  more  beautiful  to  him  than  the  last. 

We  live  among  gods  of  our  own  creation.  Does  that 
deep-toned  bell,  which  has  shortened  many  a  night  of  ill 
nerves,  render  to  you  nothing  but  acoustic  vibrations? 
Is  the  old  church,  which  gave  you  the  first  lessons  of 
religious  life,  or  the  village  school,  or  the  college  where 
you  first  knew  the  dreams  of  fancy  and  joys  of  thought, 
only  boards  or  brick  and  mortar  ?  Is  the  house  in  which 
you  were  born,  or  the  house  in  which  your  dearest  friend 
lived,  only  a  piece  of  real  estate  whose  value  is  covered 
by  the  Hartford  insurance  ?  You  walk  on  the  beach  and 
enjoy  the  animation  of  the  picture.  Scoop  up  a  little 
water  in  the  hollow  of  your  palm,  take  up  a  handful  of 
shore  sand ;  well,  these  are  the  elements.  What  is  the 
beach  but  acres  of  sand  ?  what  is  the  ocean  but  cubic 
miles  of  water?  a  little  more  or  less  signifies  nothing. 


24-0  SUCCESS. 

No,  it  is  that  tin's  brute  matter  is  part  of  somewhat 
not  brute.  It  is  that  the  sand  floor  is  held  by  spheral 
gravity,  and  bent  to  be  a  part  of  the  round  globe,  under 
the  optical  sky, — part  of  the  astonishing  astronomy, 
and  existing,  at  last,  to  moral  ends  and  from  moral 
causes. 

The  world  is  not  made  up  to  the  eye  of  figures,  that  is, 
only  half;  it  is  also  made  of  color.  How  that  element 
washes  the  universe  with  its  enchanting  waves  !  The 
sculptor  had  ended  his  work,  and  behold  a  new  world  of 
dream-like  glory.  'T  is  the  last  stroke  of  Nature  ;  be 
yond  color  she  cannot  go.  In  like  manner,  life  is  made 
up,  not  of  knowledge  only,  but  of  love  also.  If  thought 
is  form,  sentiment  is  color.  It  clothes  the  skeleton  world 
with  space,  variety,  and  glow.  The  hues  of  sunset  make 
life  great ;  so  the  affections  make  some  little  web  of  cot 
tage  and  fireside  populous,  important,  and  filling  the  main 
space  in  our  history. 

The  fundamental  fact  in  our  metaphysic  constitution  is 
the  correspondence  of  man  to  the  world,  so  that  every 
change  in  that  writes  a  record  in  the  mind.  The  mind 
yields  sympathetically  to  the  tendencies  or  law  which 
stream  through  things,  and  make  the  order  of  nature; 
and  in  the  perfection  of  this  correspondence  or  expres 
siveness,  the  health  and  force  of  man  consist.  If  we  fol 
low  this  hint  into  our  intellectual  education,  we  shall  find 
that  it  is  not  propositions,  not  new  dogmas  and  a  logical 
exposition  of  the  world,  that  arc  our  first  need  ;  but  to 
watch  and  tenderly  cherish  the  inlellcctual  and  moral 
sensibilities,  those  fountains  of  right  thought,  and  woo 
them  to  stay  and  make  their  home  with  us.  Whilst  they 


SUCCESS.  241 

abids  with  us,  we  shall  not  think  amiss.  Our  perception 
far  outruns  our  talent.  We  bring  a  welcome  to  the 
highest  lessons  of  religion  and  of  poetry  out  of  all  pro 
portion  beyond  our  skill  to  teach.  And,  further,  the 
great  hearing  and  sympathy  of  men  is  more  true  and  wise 
than  their  speaking  is  wont  to  be.  A  deep  sympathy  is 
what  we  require  for  any  student  of  the  mind  ;  for  the 
chief  difference  between-mail  and  man  is  a  difference  of 
impressionability.  Aristotle,  or  Bacon,  or  Kant  pro 
pound  some  maxim  which  is  the  key-note  of  philosophy 
thenceforward.  But  I  am  more  interested  to  know,  that, 
when  at  last  they  have  hurled  out  their  grand  word,  it  is 
only  some  familiar  experience  of  every  man  in  the  street. 
If  it  be  not,  it  will  never  be  heard  of  again. 

Ah  !  if  one  could  keep  this  sensibility,  and  live  in  the 
happy  sufficing  present,  and  find  the  day  and  its  cheap 
means  contenting,  which  only  ask  receptivity  in  you,  and 
no  strained  exertion  and  cankering  ambition,  overstimu- 
lating  to  be  at  the  head  of  your  class  and  the  head  of  soci 
ety,  and  to  have  distinction  and  laurels  and  consumption  ! 
We  are  not  strong  by  our  power  to  penetrate,  but  by  our 
relatedncss.  The  world  is  enlarged  for  us,  not  by  new 
objects,  but  by  finding  more  affinities  and  potencies  in 
those  we  have. 

This  sensibility  appears  in  the  homage  to  beauty  which 
exalts  the  faculties  of  youth,  in  the  power  which  form 
and  color  exert  upon  the  soul ;  when  we  soe  eyes  that  arc 
a  compliment  to  the  human  race,  features  that  explain 
the  Phidian  sculpture.  Eontenelle  said:  "There  are 
three  things  about  which  I  have  curiosity,  though  I  know 
nothing  of  them,  —  music,  poetry,  and  love."  The  great 
11  P 


242  SUCCESS. 

doctors  of  this  science  are  the  greatest  men,  —  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Michel  Angelo,  and  Shakspeare.  The  wise 
Socrates  treats  this  matter  with  a  certain  archness,  yet 
with  very  marked  expressions.  "  I  am  always,"  he  says, 
"  asserting  that  I  happen  to  know,  I  may  say,  nothing 
hut  a  mere  trifle  relating  to  matters  of  love ;  yet  in  that 
kind  of  learning  I  lay  claim  to  being  more  skilled  than 
any  one  man  of  the  past  or  present  time."  They  may 
well  speak  in  this  uncertain  manner  of  their  knowledge, 
and  in  this  confident  manner  of  their  will,  for  the  secret 
of  it  is  hard  to  detect,  so  deep  it  is ;  and  yet  genius  is 
measured  by  its  skill  in  this  science. 

Who  is  he  in  youth,  or  in  maturity,  or  even  in  old  age, 
who  does  not  like  to  hear  of  those  sensibilities  which  turn 
curled  heads  round  at  church,  and  send  wonderful  eye- 
beams  across  assemblies,  from  one  to  one,  never  missing 
in  the  thickest  crowd.  The  keen  statist  reckons  by  tens 
and  hundreds ;  the  genial  man  is  interested  in  every  slip 
per  that  comes  into  the  assembly.  The  passion,  alike 
everywhere,  creeps  under  the  snows  of  Scandinavia, 
under  the  fires  of  the  equator,  and  swims  in  the  seas  of 
Polynesia.  Lofn  is  as  puissant  a  divinity  in  the  Norse 
Edda  as  Camadeva  in  the  red  vault  of  India.  Eros  in  the 
Greek,  or  Cupid  in  the  Latin  heaven.  And  what  is  spe 
cially  true  of  love  is,  that  it  is  a  state  of  extreme  impres 
sionability  ;  the  lover  has  more  senses  and  finer  senses 
than  others  ;  his  eye  and  ear  are  telegraphs ;  he  reads 
omens  on  the  flower,  and  cloud,  and  face,  and  form,  and 
gesture,  and  reads  them  aright.  In  his  surprise  at  the 
sudden  and  entire  understanding  that  is  between  him  and 
the  beloved  person,  it  occurs  to  him  that  they  might 


SUCCESS.  243 

somehow  meet  independently  of  time  and  place.  How 
delicious  the  belief  that  he  could  elude  all  guards,  pre 
cautions,  ceremonies,  means,  and  delays,  and  hold  instant 
and  sempiternal  communication  !  In  solitude,  in  banish 
ment,  the  hope  returned,  and  the  experiment  was  eagerly 
tried.  The  supernal  powers  seem  to  take  his  part. 
What  was  on  his  lips  to  say  is  uttered  by  his  friend. 
When  he  went  abroad,  he  met,  by  wonderful  casualties, 
the  one  person  he  sought.  If  in  his  walk  he  chanced 
to  look  back,  his  friend  was  walking  behind  him.  And 
it  has  happened  that  the  artist  has  often  drawn  in  his 
pictures  the  face  of  the  future  wife  whom  he  had  not  yet 
seen. 

But  also  in  complacencies,  nowise  so  strict  as  this  of 
the  passion,  the  man  of  sensibility  counts  it  a  delight 
only  to  hear  a  child's  voice  fully  addressed  to  him,  or 
to  see  the  beautiful  manners  of  the  youth  of  either  sex. 
When  the  event  is  past  and  remote,  how  insignificant  the 
greatest  compared  with  the  piquancy  of  the  present ! 
To-day  at  the  school  examination  the  professor  interro 
gates  Sylvina  in  the  history  class  about  Odoacer  and 
Alaric.  Sylvina  can't  remember,  but  suggests  that  Odo 
acer  was  defeated ;  and  the  professor  tartly  replies,  "  No, 
he  defeated  the  llomans."  But  't  is  plain  to  the  visitor, 
that  't  is  of  no  importance  at  all  about  Odoacer,  and  't  is 
a  great  deal  of  importance  about  Sylvina;  and  if  she 
says  he  was  defeated,  why  he  had  better,  a  great  deal, 
have  been  defeated,  than  give  her  a  moment's  annoy. 
Odoacer,  if  there  was  a  particle  of  the  gentleman  in 
him,  would  have  said,  Let  me  be  defeated  a  thousand 
times. 


244  SUCCESS. 

And  as  our  tenderness  for  youth  and  beauty  gives  a 
new  and  just  importance  to  their  fresh  and  manifold 
claims,  so  the  like  sensibility  gives  welcome  to  all  excel 
lence,  has  eyes  and  hospitality  for  merit  in  corners.  An 
Englishman  of  marked  character  and  talent,  who  had 
brought  with  him  hither  one  or  two  friends  and  a  library 
of  mystics,  assured  me  that  nobody  and  nothing  of  pos 
sible  interest  was  left  in  England,  —  he  had  brought  all 
that  was  alive  away.  I  was  forced  to  reply,  "  No,  next 
door  to  you,  probably,  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition 
in  the  same  house,  was  a  greater  man  than  any  you  had 
seen."  Every  man  has  a  history  worth  knowing,  if  he 
could  tell  it,  or  if  we  could  draw  it  from  him.  Character 
and  wit  have  their  own  magnetism.  Send  a  deep  man  into 
any  town,  and  he  will  find  another  deep  man  there,  un 
known  hitherto  to  his  neighbors.  That  is  the  great  hap 
piness  of  life, — to  add  to  our  high  acquaintances.  The 
very  law  of  averages  might  have  assured  you  that  there 
will  be  in  every  hundred  heads,  say  ten  or  five  good 
heads.  Morals  are  generated  as  the  atmosphere  is. 
'T  is  a  secret,  the  genesis  of  either;  but  the  springs  of 
justice  and  courage  do  not  fail  any  more  than  salt  or 
sulphur  springs. 

The  world  is  always  opulent,  the  oracles  are  never 
silent  ;  but  the  receiver  must  by  a  happy  temperance  be 
brought  to  that  top  of  condition,  that  frolic  health,  that 
he  can  easily  take  and  give  these  fine  communications. 
Health  is  the  condition  of  wisdom,  and  the  sign  is  cheer 
fulness,  —  an  open  and  noble  temper.  There  was  never 
poet  who  had  not  the  heart  in  the  right  place.  The  old 
trouvcur,  Tons  Capdueil,  wrote,  — 


SUCCESS.  215 

"  Oft  have  I  heard,  and  deem  the  witness  true, 
Whom  man  delights  in,  God  delights  in  too." 

All  beauty  warms  the  heart,  is  a  sign  of  health,  pros 
perity,  and  the  favor  of  God.  Everything  lasting  and  lit 
for  men,  the  Divine  Power  has  marked  with  this  stamp. 
What  delights,  what  emancipates,  not  what  scares  and 
pains  us,  is  wise  and  good  in  speech  and  in  the  arts. 
For,  truly,  the  heart  at  the  centre  of  the  universe  with 
every  throb  hurls  the  flood  of  happiness  into  every  ar 
tery,  vein,  and  veinlet,  so  that  the  whole  system  is  inun 
dated  with  the  tides  of  joy.  The  plenty  of  the  poorest 
place  is  too  great :  the  harvest  cannot  be  gathered. 
Every  sound  ends  in  music.  The  edge  of  every  surface 
is  tinged  with  prismatic  rays. 

One  more  trait  of  true  success.  The  good  mind 
chooses  what  is  positive,  what  is  advancing,  —  embraces 
the  affirmative.  Our  system  is  one  of  poverty.  5T  is 
presumed,  as  I  said,  there  is  but  one  Shakspeare,  one 
Homer,  one  Jesus,  —  not  that  all  are  or  shall  be  inspired. 
But  we  must  begin  by  affirming.  Truth  and  goodness 
subsist  forevermore.  It  is  true  there  is  evil  and  good, 
night  and  day :  but  these  are  not  equal.  The  day  is 
great  and  final.  The  night  is  for  the  day,  but  the  day  is 
not  for  the  night.  What  is  this  immortal  demand  for 
more,  which  belongs  to  our  constitution  ?  this  enormous 
ideal?  There  is  ho  such  critic  and  beggar  as  this  ter 
rible  Soul.  No  historical  person  begins  to  content  us. 
We  know  the  satisfactoriness  of  justice,  the  sufficiency  of 
truth.  We  know  the  answer  that  leaves  nothing  to  ask. 
We  know  the  Spirit  by  its  victorious  tone.  The  search 
ing  tests  to  apply  to  every  new  pretender  are  amount  and 


246  SUCCESS. 

quality,  —  what  docs  lie  add  ?  and  what  is  the  state  of 
mind  he  leaves  me  in?  Your  theory  is  unimportant; 
but  what  new  stock  you  can  add  to  humanity,  or  how 
high  you  can  carry  life  ?  A  man  is  a  man  only  as  he 
makes  life  and  nature  happier  to  us. 

I  fear  the  popular  notion  of  success  stands  in  direct 
opposition  in  all  points  to  the  real  and  wholesome  suc 
cess.  One  adores  public  opinion,  the  other  private  opin 
ion;  one  fame,  the  oilier  desert;  one  feats,  the  oilier 
humility;  one  lucre,  the  other  love;  one  monopoly,  and 
the  other  hospitality  of  mind. 

We  may  apply  this  affirmative  law  to  letters,  to  man 
ners,  to  art,  to  the  decorations  of  our  houses,  etc.  I  do 
not  find  executions  or  tortures  or  lazar-houses,  or  grisly 
photographs  of  the  field  on  the  day  after  the  battle  fit 
subjects  for  cabinet  pictures.  I  think  that  some  so- 
called  "  sacred  subjects "  must  be  treated  with  more 
genius  than  I  have  seen  in  the  masters  of  Italian  or 
Spanish  art  to  be  right  pictures  for  houses  and  churches. 
Nature  docs  not  invite  such  exhibition.  Nature  lays  the 
ground-plan  of  each  creature  accurately,  —  sternly  fit  for 
all  his  functions  ;  then  veils  it  scrupulously.  See  how 
carefully  she  covers  up  the  skeleton.  The  eye  shall  not 
see  it :  the  sun  shall  not  shine  on  it.  She  weaves  her 
tissues  and  integuments  of  flesh  and  skin  and  hair  and 
beautiful  colors  of  the  day  over  it,  and  forces  death  down 
underground,  and  makes  haste  to  cover  it  up  with  leaves 
and  vines,  and  wipes  carefully  out  every  trace  by  new 
creation.  Who  and  what  are  you  that  would  lay  the 
ghastly  anatomy  bare? 

Don't  hang  a  dismal  picture  on  the  wall,  and  do  not 


SUCCESS.  247 

daub  with  sables  and  glooms  in  your  conversation. 
Don't  be  a  cynic  and  disconsolate  preacher.  Don't 
bewail  and  bemoan.  Omit  the  negative  propositions. 
Nerve  us  with  incessant  affirmatives.  Don't  waste  your 
self  in  rejection,  nor  bark  against  the  bad,  but  chant  the 
beauty  of  the  good.  When  that  is  spoken  which  has  a 
right  to  be  spoken,  the  chatter  and  the  criticism  will 
stop.  Set  down  nothing  that  will  not  help  somebody  j 

"  For  every  gift  of  noble  origin 
Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope's  perpetual  breath." 

The  affirmative  of  affirmatives  is  love.  As  much  love, 
so  much  perception.  As  caloric  to  matter,  so  is  love  to 
mind;  so  it  enlarges,  and  so  it  empowers  it.  Good-will 
makes  insight,  as  one  finds  his  way  to  the  sea  by  em 
barking  on  a  river.  I  have  seen  scores  of  people  who 
can  silence  me,  but  I  seek  one  who  shall  make  me  forget 
or  overcome  the  frigidities  and  imbecilities  into  which 
I  fall.  The  painter  Giotto,  Vasari  tells  us,  renewed  art, 
because  he  put  more  goodness  into  his  heads.  To  awake 
in  man  and  to  raise  the  sense  of  worth,  to  educate  h;s 
feeling  and  judgment  so  that  he  shall  scorn  himself  for 
a  bad  action,  that  is  the  only  aim. 

'T  is  cheap  and  easy  to  destroy.  There  is  not  a  joyful 
boy  or  an  innocent  girl  buoyant  with  fine  purposes  of 
duty,  in  all  the  street  full  of  eager  and  rosy  faces,  but  a 
cynic  can  chill  and  dishearten  with  a  single  word.  De 
spondency  comes  readily  enough  to  the  most  sanguine. 
The  cynic  has  only  to  follow  thsir  hint  with  his  bitter 
confirmation,  and  they  check  that  eager  courageous  pace 
and  go  home  with  heavier  step  and  premature  age.  They 


248  SUCCESS. 

will  themselves  quickly  enough  give  the  hint  he  wants  to 
the  cold  wretch.  Which  of  them  has  not  failed  to  please 
where  they  most  wished  it  ?  or  blundered  where  they 
were  most  ambitious  of  success  ?  or  found  themselves 
awkward  or  tedious  or  incapable  of  study,  thought,  or 
heroism,  and  only  hoped  by  good  sense  and  fidelity  to  do 
what  they  could  and  pass  unblamed  ?  And  this  witty 
malefactor  makes  their  little  hope  less  with  satire  and 
scepticism,  and  slackens  the  springs  of  endeavor.  Yes, 
this  is  easy  ;  but  to  help  the  young  soul,  add  energy, 
inspire  hope,  and  blow  the  coals  into  a  useful  flame ;  to 
redeem  defeat  by  new  thought,  by  firm  action,  that  is 
not  easy,  that  is  the  work  of  divine  men. 

We  live  on  different  planes  or  platforms.  There  is  an 
external  life,  which  is  educated  at  school,  1  aught  to  read, 
write,  cipher,  and  trade ;  taught  to  grasp  all  the  boy  can 
get,  urging  him  to  put  himself  forward,  to  make  himself 
useful  and  agreeable  in  the  world,  to  vide,  run,  argue, 
and  contend,  unfold  his  talents,  shine,  conquer,  and  pos 
sess. 

But  the. inner  life  sits  at  home,  and  does  not  learn 
to  do  things,  nor  value  these  feats  at  all.  'T  is  a  quiet, 
wise  perception.  It  loves  truth,  because  it  is  itself  real ; 
it  loves  right,  it  knows  nothing  else;  but  it  makes  no 
progress ;  was  as  wise  in  our  first  memory  of  it  as  now ; 
is  just  the  same  now  in  maturity,  and  hereafter  in  age,  it 
was  in  youth.  We  have  grown  to  manhood  and  wo 
manhood  ;  we  have  powers,  connection,  children,  reputa 
tions,  professions :  this  makes  no  account  of  them  all. 
It  lives  in  the  great  present ;  it  makes  the  present  great. 
This  tranquil,  well-founded,  wide-seeing  soul  is  no  ex- 


SUCCESS.  24,9 

press-rider,  no  attorney,  no  magistrate  :  it  lies  in  the  sun, 
and  broods  on  the  world.  A  person  of  this  temper  once 
said  to  a  man  of  much  activity,  "I  will  pardon  you  that 
you  do  so  much,  and  you  me  that  I  do  nothing."  And 
Euripides  says  that  "Zeus  hates  busybodies  and  those 
who  do  too  much." 


11* 


OLD    AGE. 


OLD    AGE. 


Ox  the  anniversary  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  at 
Cambridge,  in  1861,  the  venerable  President  Quincy, 
senior  member  of  the  Society,  as  well  as  senior  alumnus 
of  the  University,  was  received  at  the  dinner  with  pe 
culiar  demonstrations  of  respect.  He  replied  to  these 
compliments  in  a  speech,  and,  gracefully  claiming  the 
privileges  of  a  literary  society,  entered  at  some  length  into 
an  Apology  for  Old  Ag3,  and,  aiding  himself  by  notes  in 
his  hand,  made  a  sort  of  running  commentary  on  Cice 
ro's  chapter  "  De  Senectute."  The  character  of  the 
speaker,  the  transparent  good  faith  of  his  praise  and 
blame,  and  the  naivete  of  his  eagor  preference  of  Cicero's 
opinions  to  King  David's,  gave  unusual  interest  to  the 
College  festival.  It  was  a  discourse  full  of  dignity,  hon 
oring  him  who  spoke  and  those  who  heard. 

The  speech  led  me  to  look  over  at  home  —  an  easy 
task  —  Cicero's  famous  essay,  charming  by  its  uniform 
rhetorical  merit ;  heroic  with  Stoical  precepts ;  with  a 
Iloman  eye  to  the  claims  of  the  State;  happiest,  per 
haps,  in  his  praise  of  life  on  the  farm  ;  and  rising  at  the 
conclusion  to  a  lofty  strain.  But  he  does  not  exhaust 
the  subject ;  rather  invites  the  attempt  to  add  traits  to 
tho  picture  from  our  broader  modern  life. 


251  OLD     AGE. 

Cicero  makes  no  reference  to  Ilic  illusions  which  cling 
to  the  element  of  time,  and  in  which  Nature  delights. 
Wellington,  in  speaking  of  military  men,  said,  "What 
masks  are  these  uniforms  to  hide  cowards  !  "  I  have 
often  delected  the  like  deception  in  the  cloth  shoe,  wad 
ded  pelisse,  wig,  spectacles,  and  padded  chair  of  Age. 
Nature  lends  herself  to  these  illusions,  and  adds  dim 
sight,  deafness,  cracked  voice,  snowy  hair,  short  memory 
and  sleep.  These  also  are  masks,  and  all  is  not  Age 
that  wears  them.  Whilst  we  yet  call  ourselves  young, 
and  our  mates  are  yet  youths  with  even  boyish  remains, 
one  good  fellow  in  the  set  prematurely  sports  a  gray  or 
a  bald  head,  which  does  not  impose  on  us  who  know 
how  innocent  of  sanctity  or  of  Platonism  he  is,  but  does 
deceive  his  juniors  and  the  public,  who  presently  distin 
guish  him  with  almost  amusing  respect ;  and  this  lets  us 
into  the  secret,  that  the  venerable  forms  that  so  awed 
our  childhood  were  just  such  impostors.  Nature  is  full 
of  freaks,  and  now  puts  an  old  head  on  young  shoul 
ders,  and  then  a  young  heart  beating  under  fourscore 
winters. 

For  if  the  essence  of  age  is  not  present,  these  signs, 
whether  of  Art  or  Nature,  arc  counterfeit  and  ridiculous  : 
and  the  essence  of  age  is  intellect.  Wherever  that  ap 
pears,  we  call  it  old.  If  we  look  into  the  eyes  of  the 
youngest  person,  we  sometimes  discover  that  here  is  one 
who  knows  already  what  you  would  go  about  with  much 
pains  to  teach  him  ;  there  is  that  in  him  which  is  the 
ancestor  of  all  around  him  :  which  fact  the  Indian  Ve- 
dus  express  when  they  say,  "He  that  can  discriminate 
is  the  father  of  his  father."  And  in  our  old  British 


OLD    AGE.  255 

legends  of  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table,  his  friend  and 
counsellor,  Merlin  the  Wise,  is  a  babe  found  exposed  in 
a  basket  by  the  river-side,  and,  though  an  infant  of  only 
a  few  days,  speaks  articulately  to  those  who  discover 
him,  tells  his  name  and  history,  and  presently  foretells 
the  fate  of  the  bystanders.  Wherever  there  is  power, 
there  is  age.  Don't  be  deceived  by  dimples  and  curls. 
I  tell  you  that  babe  is  a  thousand  years  old. 

Time  is,  indeed,  the  theatre  and  seat  of  illusion :  noth 
ing  is  so  ductile  and  clastic.  The  mind  stretches  an  hour 
to  a  century,  and  dwarfs  an  age  to  an  hour.  Saadi  found 
in  a  mosque  at  Damascus  an  old  Persian  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  who  was  dying,  and  was  saying  to  himself, 
"  I  said,  coming  into  the  world  by  birth,  '  I  will  enjoy 
myself  for  a  few  moments.'  Alas!  at  the  variegated 
table  of  life  I  partook  of  a  few  mouthfuls,  and  the  Fates 
said,  'Enough ! ' '  That  which  does  not  decay  is  so  cen 
tral  and  controlling  in  us,  that,  as  long  as  one  is  alone  by 
himself,  he  is  not  sensible  of  the  inroads  of  time,  which 
always  begin  at  the  surface-edges.  If,  on  a  winter  day, 
you  should  stand  within  a  bell-glass,  the  face  and  color  of 
the  afternoon  clouds  would  not  indicate  whether  it  were 
June  or  January  ;  and  if  we  did  not  find  the  reflection  of 
ourselves  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  people,  we  could  not 
know  that  the  century-clock  had  struck  seventy  instead 
of  twenty.  How  many  men  habitually  believe  that  each 
chance  passenger  with  whom  they  converse  is  of  their 
own  age,  and  presently  find  it  was  his  father,  and  not  his 
brother,  whom  they  knew  ! 

But  not  to  press  too  hard  on  these  deceits  and  illusions 
of  Nature,  which  are  inseparable  from  our  condition,  and 


256  OLD    AC,  E. 

looking  at  age  under  an  aspect  more  conformed  to  ilic 
common-sense,  if  the  question  be  the  felicity  of  age,  I 
fear  the  first  popular  judgments  will  be  unfavorable. 
From  the  point  of  sensuous  experience,  seen  from  the 
streets  and  markets  and  the  haunts  of  pleasure  and  gain, 
the  estimate  of  age  is  low,  melancholy,  and  sceptical. 
Frankly  face  the  facts,  and  see  the  result.  Tobacco, 
coffee,  alcohol,  hashish,  prussic  acid,  strychnine,  are  weak 
dilutions:  the  surest  poison  is  time.  This  cup,  which 
Nature  puts  to  our  lips,  has  a  wonderful  virtue,  surpass 
ing  that  of  any  other  draught.  It  opens  the  senses,  adds 
power,  fills  us  with  exalted  dreams,  which  we  call  hope, 
love,  ambition,  science:  especially,  it  creates  a  craving 
for  larger  draughts  of  itself.  But  they  who  take  the 
larger  draughts  are  drunk  with  it,  lose  their  stature, 
strength,  beauty,  and  senses,  and  end  in  folly  and  de 
lirium.  We  postpone  our  literary  work  until  we  have 
more  ripeness  and  skill  to  write,  and  we  one  day  dis 
cover  that  our  literary  talent  was  a  youthful  effervescence 
which  we  have  now  lost.  We  had  a  judge  in  Massachu 
setts  who  at  sixty  proposed  to  resign,  alleging  that  he 
perceived  a  certain  decay  in  his  faculties ;  he  was  dis 
suaded  by  his  friends,  on  account  of  the  public  conven 
ience  at  that  time.  At  seventy  it  was  hinted  to  him  that 
it  was  time  to  retire  ;  but  he  now  replied,  that  he  thought 
his  judgment  as  robust,  and  all  his  faculties  as  good  as 
ever  they  were.  But  besides  the  self-deception,  the 
strong  and  hasty  laborers  of  the  street  do  not  work  well 
with  the  chronic  valetudinarian.  Youth  is  everywhere 
in  place.  Age,  like  woman,  requires  fit  surroundings. 
Age  is  comely  in  coaches,  in  churches,  in  chairs  of  state, 


OLD    AGE.  257 

and  ceremony,  in  council-chambers,  in  courts  of  justice, 
and  historical  societies.  Age  is  becoming  in  the  country. 
But  in  the  rush  and  uproar  of  Broadway,  if  you  look  into 
the  faces  of  the  passengers,  there  is  dejection  or  indigna 
tion  in  the  seniors,  a  certain  concealed  sense  of  injury, 
and  the  lip  made  up  with  a  heroic  determination  not  to 
mind  it.  Few  envy  the  consideration  enjoyed  by  the  old 
est  inhabitant.  We  do  not  count  a  man's  years,  until  lie 
has  nothing  else  to  count.  The  vast  inconvenience  of 
animal  immortality  was  told  in  the  fable  of  Tithonus. 
In  short,  the  creed  of  the  street  is,  Old  Age  is  not  dis 
graceful,  but  immensely  disadvantageous.  Life  is  well 
enough,  but  we  shall  all  be  glad  to  get  out  of  it,  and  they 
will  all  be  glad  to  have  us. 

This  is  odious  on  the  face  of  it.  Universal  convictions 
are  not  to  be  shaken  by  the  whimseys  of  overfed  butch 
ers  and  firemen,  or  by  the  sentimental  fears  of  girls  who 
would  keep  the  infantile  bloom  on  their  cheeks.  We 
know  the  value  of  experience.  Life  and  art  are  cumula 
tive  ;  and  he  who  has  accomplished  something  in  any  de 
partment  alone  deserves  to  be  heard  on  that  subject.  A 
man  of  great  employments  and  excellent  performance 
used  to  assure  me  that  he  did  not  think  a  man  worth 
anything  until  he  was  sixty ;  although  this  smacks  a  lit 
tle  of  the  resolution  of  a  certain  "  Young  Men's  Repub 
lican  Club,"  that  all  men  should  be  held  eligible  who 
were  under  seventy.  But  in  all  governments,  the  coun 
cils  of  power  were  held  by  the  old ;  and  patricians  or 
patres,  senate  or  senes,  seigneurs  or  seniors,  gerousia,  the 
senate  of  Sparta,  the  presbytery  of  the  Church,  and  the 
like,  all  signify  simply  old  men. 

Q 


258  OLD    AGE. 

The  cynical  creed  or  lampoon  of  the  market  is  refuted 
by  the  universal  prayer  for  long  life,  which  is  the  verdict 
of  Nature,  and  justified  by  all  history.  We  have,  it  is 
true,  examples  of  an  accelerated  pace  by  which  young 
men  achieved  grand  works  ;  as  in  the  Macedonian  Alex 
ander,  iii  llamicllc,  Shakspeare,  Pascal,  Burns,  and  By 
ron  ;  but  these  are  rare  exceptions.  Nature,  in  the  main, 
vindicates  her  law.  Skill  to  do  comes  of  doing ;  knowl 
edge  comes  by  eyes  always  open,  and  working  hands ;  and 
there  is  no  knowledge  that  is  not  power.  Be  ranger  said, 
"  Almost  all  the  good  workmen  live  long."  And  if  the 
life  be  true  and  noble,  we  have  quite  another  sort  of  sen 
iors  than  the  frowzy,  timorous,  peevish  dotards  who  are 
falsely  old,  —  namely,  the  men  who  fear  no  city,  but  by 
whom  cities  stand ;  who  appearing  in  any  street,  the  peo 
ple  empty  their  houses  to  gaze  at  and  obey  them  :  as  at 
"  My  Cid,  with  the  fleecy  beard,"  in  Toledo ;  or  Bruce, 
as  Barbour  reports  him ;  as  blind  old  Dandolo,  elected 
Doge  at  eighty-four  years,  storming  Constantinople  at 
ninety-four,  and  after  the  revolt  again  victorious,  and 
elected  at  the  age  of  ninety-six  to  the  throne  of  the 
Eastern  Empire,  which  he  declined,  and  died  Doge  at 
ninety-seven.  We  still  feel  the  force  of  Socrates, 
"  whom  well-advised  the  oracle  pronounced  wisest  of 
men";  of  Archimedes,  holding  Syracuse  against  the 
Romans  by  his  wit,  and  himself  better  than  all  their 
nation ;  of  Michel  Angelo,  wearing  the  four  crowns  of 
architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  and  poetry;  of  Galileo, 
of  whose  blindness  Castelli  said,  "The  noblest  eye  is 
darkened  that  Nature  ever  made,  —  an  eye  that  hath  seen 
more  than  all  that  went  before  him,  and  hath  opened  the 


OLD    AGE.  259 

eyes  of  all  that  shall  come  after  him  "  ;  of  Newton,  who 
made  an  important  discovery  for  every  one  of  his  eighty- 
five  years  ;  of  Bacon,  who  "  took  all  knowledge  to  be  his 
province";  of  Fontenelle,  "that  precious  porcelain  vase 
laid  np  in  the  centre  of  France  to  be  guarded  with  the 
utmost  care  for  a  hundred  years  " ;  of  Franklin,  Jeffer 
son,  and  Adams,  the  Aviso  and  heroic  statesmen;  of 
Washington,  the  perfect  citizen  ;  of  Wellington,  the  per 
fect  soldier;  of  Goethe,  the  all-knowing  poet;  of  Hum- 
bo!dt,  the  encyclopaedia  of  science. 

Under  the  general  assertion  of  the  well-being  of  age, 
we  can  easily  count  particular  benefits  of  that  condition. 
It  has  weathered  the  perilous  capes  and  shoals  in  the  sea 
whereon  we  sail,  and  the  chief  evil  of  life  is  taken  away 
in  removing  the  grounds  of  fear.  The  insurance  of  a 
ship  expires  as  she  enters  the  harbor  at  home.  It  were 
strange,  if  a  man  should  turn  his  sixtieth  year  without  a 
feeling  of  immense  relief  from  the  number  of  dangers  he 
has  escaped.  When  the  old  wife  says,  "Take  care  of 

that  tumor  in  your  shoulder,  perhaps  it  is  cancerous," 

he  replies,  "I  am  yielding  to  a  surer  decomposition." 
The  humorous  thief  who  drank  a  pot  of  beer  at  the  gal 
lows  blew  off  the  froth  because  he  had  heard  it  was  un 
healthy;  but  it  will  not  add  a  pang  to  the  prisoner 
marched  out  to  be  shot,  to  assure  him  that  the  pain  in 
his  knee  threatens  mortification.  When  the  plcuro-pncu- 
monia  of  the  cows  raged,  the  butchers  said,  that,  though 
the  acute  degree  was  novel,  there  never  was  a  time  when 
this  disease  did  not  occur  among  cattle.  All  men  carry 
seeds  of  all  distempers  through  life  latent,  and  we  die 
without  developing  them  •  such  is  the  affirmative  force  of 


260  OLD    AGE. 

the  constitution ;  but  if  you  are  enfeebled  by  any  cause, 
some  of  these  sleeping  seeds  start  and  open.  Meantime, 
at  every  stage  we  lose  a  foe.  At  fifty  years,  't  is  said, 
afflicted  citizens  lose  their  sick-headaches.  I  hope  this 
heyira  is  not  as  movable  a  feast  as  that  one  I  annually 
look  for,  when  the  horticulturists  assure  me  that  the  rose- 
bugs  in  our  gardens  disappear  on  the  tenth  of  July ;  they 
stay  a  fortnight  later  in  mine.  But  be  it  as  it  may  with 
the  sick-headache,  —  't  is  certain  that  graver  headaches 
and  heartaches  are  lulled  once  for  all,  as  we  come  up  with 
certain  goals  of  time.  The  passions  have  answered  their 
purpose :  that  slight  but  dread  overweight,  with  which, 
in  each  instance,  Nature  secures  the  execution  of  her 
aim,  drops  off.  To  keep  man  in  the  planet,  she  impresses 
the  terror  of  death.  To  perfect  the  commissariat,  she 
implants  in  each  a  certain  rapacity  to  get  the  supply,  and 
a  little  oversupply,  of  his  wants.  To  insure  the  existence 
of  the  race,  she  reinforces  the  sexual  instinct,  at  the  risk 
of  disorder,  grief,  and  pain.  To  secure  strength,  she 
plants  cruel  hunger  and  thirst,  which  so  easily  overdo 
their  office,  and  invite  disease.  But  these  temporary 
stays  and  shifts  for  the  protection  of  the  young  animal 
are  shed  as  fast  as  they  can  be  replaced  by  nobler 
resources.  We  live  in  youth  amidst  this  rabble  of  pas 
sions,  quite  too  tender,  quite  too  hungry  and  irritable. 
Later,  the  interiors  of  .mind  and  heart  open,  and  supply 
grander  motives.  We  learn  the  fatal  compensations  that 
wait  on  every  act.  Then,  — one  after  another, —  this 
riotous  time-destroying  crew  disappear. 

I  count  it  another  capital  advantage  of  age,  this,  that 
a  success  more  or  less  signifies  nothing.     Little  by  little, 


OLD    AGE.  261 

it  has  amassed  such  a  fund  of  merit,  that  it  can  very  well 
afford  to  go  on  its  credit  when  it  will.  When  I  chanced 
to  meet  the  poet  Wordsworth,  then  sixty-three  years  old, 
he  told  me,  "  that  he  had  just  had  a  fall  and  lost  a  tooth, 
and,  when  his  companions  were  much  concerned  for  the 
mischance,  he  had  replied,  that  he  was  glad  it  had  not 
happened  forty  years  before."  Well,  Nature  takes  care 
that  we  shall  not  lose  our  organs  forty  years  too  soon. 
A  lawyer  argued  a  cause  yesterday  in  the  Supreme 
Court,  and  I  was  struck  with  a  certain  air  of  levity  and 
defiance  which  vastly  became  him.  Thirty  years  ago  it 
was  a  serious  concern  to  him  whether  his  pleading  was 
good  and  effective.  Now  it  is  of  importance  to  his 
client,  but  of  none  to  himself.  It  has  been  long  already 
fixed  what  he  can  do  and  cannot  do,  and  his  reputation 
does  not  gain  or  suffer  from  one  or  a  dozen  new  per 
formances.  If  he  should,  on  a  new  occasion,  rise  quite 
beyond  his  mark,  and  achieve  somewhat  great  and  ex 
traordinary,  that,  of  course,  would  instantly  tell;  but 
he  may  go  below  his  mark  with  impunity,  and  peo 
ple  will  say,  "  O,  he  had  headache,"  or,  "  He  lost  his 
sleep  for  two  nights."  What  a  lust  of  appearance, 
what  a  load  of  anxieties  that  once  degraded  him,  he  is 
thus  rid  of!  Every  one  is  sensible  of  this  cumulative 
advantage  in  living.  All  the  good  days  behind  him 
are  sponsors,  who  speak  for  him  when  he  is  silent, 
pay  for  him  when  he  has  no  money,  introduce  him 
where  he  has  no  letters,  and  work  for  him  when  he 
sleeps. 

A  third  felicity  of  age  is,  that  it  has  found  expression. 
The  youth  suffers  not  only  from  ungratified  desires,  but 


262  OLD    AGE. 

from  powers  untried,  and  from  a  picture  in  his  mind  of 
a  career  which  has,  as  yet,  no  outward  reality,     lie  is 
tormented   with   the   want   of  correspondence   between 
tilings  and  thoughts.     Michel  Angelo's  head  is  full  of 
masculine  and  gigantic  figures  as  gods  walking,  which 
make  him  savage  until  his  furious  chisel  can  render  them 
into  marble;  and  of  architectural  dreams,  until  a  hun 
dred  stone-masons  can  lay  them  in  courses  of  travertine. 
There  is  the  like  tempest  in  every  good  head  in  which 
some  great  benefit  for  the  world  is  planted.     The  throes 
continue  until  the  child  is  born.     Every  faculty  new  to 
each  man  thus  goads  him  and  drives  him  out  into  doleful 
deserts,  until  it  finds  proper  vent.     All  the  functions  of 
human  duty  irritate  and  lash  him  forward,  bemoaning 
and  chiding,  until  they  are  performed.    He  wants  friends, 
employment,  knowledge,  power,  house   and  land,  wife 
and  children,  honor  and  fame;  he  has  religious  wants, 
aesthetic  wants,  domestic,  civil,  humane  wants.     One  by 
one,  day  after  day,  he  learns  to  coin  his  wishes  into 
facts.     He  has  his  calling,  homestead,  social  connection, 
and  personal  power,  and  thus,  at  the  end  of  fifty  years, 
his  soul  is  appeased  by  seeing  some  sort  of  correspond 
ence  between  his  wish  and  his  possession.     This  makes 
the  value  of  age,  the  satisfaction  it  slowly  offers  to  every 
craving.     He  is  serene  who  docs  not  feel  himself  pinched 
and  wronged,  but  whose  condition,  in  particular  and  in 
general,  allows  the  utterance  of  his  mind.     In  old  per 
sons,  when  thus  fully  expressed,  we  often  observe  a  fair, 
plump,   perennial,   waxen   complexion,    which   indicates 
that  all  the  ferment  of  earlier  days  has  subsided  into 
serenity  of  thought  and  behavior. 


OLD    AGE.  263 

The  compensations  of  Nature  play  in  age  as  in  youth. 
In  a  world  so  charged  and  sparkling  with  power,  a  man 
does  not  live  long  and  actively  without  costly  additions 
of  experience,  which,  though  not  spoken,  are  recorded 
in  his  mind.  What  to  the  youth  is  only  a  guess  or 
a  hope,  is  in  the  veteran  a  digested  statute.  He  beholds 
the  feats  of  the  juniors  with  complacency,  but  as  one 
who,  having  long  ago  known  these  games,  lias  refined 
them  into  results  and  morals.  The  Indian  Red  Jacket, 
when  the  young  braves  were  boasting  their  deeds,  said, 
"But  the  sixties  have  all  the  twenties  and  forties  in 
them." 

For  a  fourth  benefit,  age  sets  its  house  in  order,  and 
finishes  its  works,  which  to  every  artist  is  a  supreme 
pleasure.  Youth  has  an  excess  of  sensibility,  before 
which  every  object  glitters  and  attracts.  We  leave  one 
pursuit  for  another,  and  the  young  man's  year  is  a  heap 
of  beginnings.  At  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth,  he  has 
nothing  to  show  for  it,  —  not  one  completed  work.  But 
the  time  is  not  lost.  Our  instincts  drove  us  to  hive  innu 
merable  experiences,  that  are  yet  of  no  visible  value,  and 
which  we  may  keep  for  twice  seven  years  before  they 
shall  be  wanted.  The  best  things  are  of  secular  growth. 
The  instinct  of  classifying  marks  the  wise  and  healthy 
mind.  Linnaeus  projects  his  system,  and  lays  out  his 
twenty-four  classes  of  plants,  before  yet  he  has  found  in 
Nature  a  single  plant  to  justify  certain  of  his  classes. 
His  seventh  class  has  not  one.  In  process  of  time,  he 
finds  with  delight  the  little  white  Trientalis,  the  only 
plant  witli  seven  petals  and  sometimes  seven  stamens, 
which  constitues  a  seventh  class  in  conformity  with  his 


264  OLD    AGE. 

system.  The  conch  ologist  builds  his  cabinet  whilst  as 
yet  he  lias  few  shells.  He  labels  shelves  for  classes,  cells 
for  species  :  all  but  a  few  are  empty.  But  every  year 
fills  some  blanks,  and  with  accelerating  speed  as  he  be 
comes  knowing  and  known.  An  old  scholar  finds  keen 
delight  in  verifying  the  impressive  anecdotes  and  cita 
tions  he  has  met  with  in  miscellaneous  reading  and  hear 
ing,  in  all  the  years  of  youth.  We  carry  in  memory  im 
portant  anecdotes,  and  have  lost  all  clew  to  the  author 
from  whom  we  had  them.  We  have  a  heroic  speech 
from  Rome  or  Greece,  but  cannot  fix  it  on  the  man  who 
said  it.  We  have  an  admirable  line  worthy  of  Horace, 
ever  and  anon  resounding  in  our  mind's  ear,  but  have 
searched  all  probable  and  improbable  books  for  it  in  vain. 
We  consult  the  reading  men:  but,  strangely  enough, 
they  who  know  everything  know  not  this.  But  espe 
cially  we  have  a  certain  insulated  thought,  which  haunts 
us,  but  remains  insulated  and  barren.  Well,  there  is 
nothing  for  all  this  but  patience  and  time.  Time,  yes, 
that  is  the  finder,  the  unweariable  explorer,  not  subject 
to  casualties,  omniscient  at  last.  The  day  comes  when 
the  hidden  author  of  our  story  is  found ;  when  the  brave 
speech  returns  straight  to  the  hero  who  said  it ;  when 
the  admirable  verse  finds  the  poet  to  whom  it  belongs ; 
and  best  of  all,  when  the  lonely  thought,  which  seemed  so 
wise,  yet  half-wise,  half-thought,  because  it  cast  no  light 
abroad,  is  suddenly  matched  in  our  mind  by  its  twin, 
by  its  sequence,  or  next  related  analogy,  which  gives  it 
instantly  radiating  power,  and  justifies  the  superstitious 
instinct  with  which  we  have  hoarded  it.  We  remember 
our  old  Greek  Professor  at  Cambridge,  an  ancient  bachc- 


OLD    AGE.  265 

lor,  amid  his  folios,  possessed  by  this  hope  of  completing 
a  task,  with  nothing  to  break  his  leisure  after  the  three 
hours  of  his  daily  classes,  yet  ever  restlessly  stroking  his 
leg,  and  assuring  himself  "he  should  retire  from  the 
University  and  read  the  authors."  In  Goethe's  Ro 
mance,  Makaria,  the  central  figure  for  wisdom  and  influ 
ence,  pleases  herself  with  withdrawing  into  solitude  to 
astronomy  and  epistolary  correspondence.  Goethe  him 
self  carried  this  completion  of  studies  to  the  highest 
point.  Many  of  his  works  hung  on  the  easel  from  youth 
to  age,  and  received  a  stroke  in  every  month  or  year. 
A  literary  astrologer,  he  never  applied  himself  to  any 
task  but  at  the  happy  moment  when  all  the  stars  con 
sented.  Bentley  thought  himself  likely  to  live  till  four 
score,  —  long  enough  to  read  everything  that  was  worth 
reading,  —  " Et  tune  mayna  mei  sub  terris  ibit  imago" 
Much  wider  is  spread  the  pleasure  which  old  men  take 
in  completing  their  secular  affairs,  the  inventor  his  in 
ventions,  the  agriculturist  his  experiments,  and  all  old 
men  in  finishing  their  houses,  rounding  their  estates, 
clearing  their  titles,  reducing  tangled  interests  to  order, 
reconciling  enmities,  and  leaving  all  in  the  best  posture 
for  the  future.  It  must  be  believed  that  there  is  a  pro 
portion  between  the  designs  of  a  man  and  the  length  of 
liis  life  :  there  is  a  calendar  of  his  years,  so  of  his  per 
formances. 

America  is  the  country  of  young  men,  and  too  full  of 
work  hitherto  for  leisure  and  tranquillity ;  yet  we  have 
had  robust  centenarians,  and  examples  of  dignity  and 
wisdom.  I  have  lately  found  in  an  old  note-book  a 
record  of  a  visit  to  ex-President  John  Adams,  in  1825, 
12 


2G6  OLD    ACE. 

soon  after  the  election  of  his  son  to  the  Presidency.  It 
is  but  a  sketch,  and  nothing  important  passed  in  the  con 
versation  ;  but  it  reports  a  moment  in  the  life  of  a  heroic 
person,  who,  in  extreme  old  age,  appeared  still  erect  and 
worthy  of  his  fame. 

}  Feb.,  1825.    To-day,  at  Quincy,  with  my  brother, 

by  invitation  of  Mr.  Adams's  family.  The  old  President 
sat  in  a  large  stuffed  arm-chair,  dressed  in  a  blue  coat, 
black  small-clothes,  white  stockings ;  a  cotton  cap  cov 
ered  his  bald  head.  We  made  our  compliment,  told  him 
he  must  let  us  join  our  congratulations  to  those  of  the 
nation  on  the  happiness  of  his  house.  He  thanked  us, 
and  said :  "  I  am  rejoiced,  because  the  nation  is  happy. 
The  time  of  gratulation  and  congratulations  is  nearly 
over  with  me :  I  am  astonished  that  I  have  lived  to  see 
and  know  of  this  event.  I  have  lived  now  nearly  a  cen 
tury  ;  [he  was  ninety  in  the  following  October :  ]  a  long, 
harassed,  and  distracted  life."  —  I  said,  "The  world 
thinks  a  good  deal  of  joy  has  been  mixed  with  it." 

"  The  world  docs  not  know,"  he  replied,  "  how  much 

toil,  anxiety,  and  sorrow  I  have  suffered."  — I  asked  if 
Mr.  Adams's  letter  of  acceptance  had  been  read  to  him. 
—  "Yes,"  he  said,  and  added,  "My  son  has  more  politi 
cal  prudence  than  any  man  that  I  know  who  has  existed 
in  my  time ;  he  never  was  put  off  his  guard  :  and  I  hope 
he  will  continue  such ;  but  what  effect  age  may  work  in 
diminishing  the  power  of  his  mind,  I  do  not  know  ;  it 
has  been  very  much  on  the  stretch,  ever  since  he  was 
born.  He  has  always  been  laborious,  child  and  man,  from 
infancy."  —  When  Mr.  J.  Q-  Adams's  age  Mas  mentioned, 


OLD    AGE.  2G7 

lie  said,  "  He  is  now  fifty-eight,  or  will  be  in  July  "  ;  and 
remarked  that  "  all  the  Presidents  were  of  the  same  age  : 
General  Washington  was  about  fifty-eight,  and  I  was 
about  fifty-eight,  and  Mr.  Jefferson,  and  Mr.  Madison, 
and  Mr.  Monroe."  —  We  inquired  when  he  expected  to 
see  Mr.  Adams.  —  He  said:  "Never:  Mr.  Adams  will 
not  come  to  Qnincy  but  to  my  funeral.  It  would  be  a 
great  satisfaction  to  me  to  see  him,  but  I  don't  wish  him 
to  come  on  my  account."  —  He  spoke  of  Mr.  Lechmere, 
whom  he  "  well  remembered  to  have  seen  come  down 
daily,  at  a  great  age,  to  walk  in  the  old  town-house,"  — • 
adding,  "  And  I  wish  I  could  walk  as  well  as  he  did.  He 
was  Collector  of  the  Customs  for  many  years  under  the 
Royal  Government."  —  E.  said:  "I  suppose,  sir,  you 
would  not  have  taken  his  place,  even  to  walk  as  well 
as  he."  — "  No,"  he  replied,  "  that  was  not  what  I 
wanted."  —  He  talked  of  Whitefield,  and  "  remembered 
when  he  was  a  Freshman  in  College,  to  have  come  into 
town  to  the  Old  South  church  [I  think],  to  hear  him,  but 
could  not  get  into  the  house  ;  —  I,  however,  saw  him," 
lie  said,  "through  a  window,  and  distinctly  heard  all. 
He  had  a  voice  such  as  I  never  heard  before  or  since. 
He  cast  it  out  so  that  you  might  hear  it  at  the  meeting 
house  [pointing  towards  the  Quincy  meeting-house],  and 
he  had  the  grace  of  a  dancing-master,  of  an  actor  of 
plays.  His  voice  and  manner  helped  him  more  than  his 
sermons.  I  went  with  Jonathan  Sewall."  —  "  And  you 
were  pleased  with  him,  sir  ?  "  —  "  Pleased  !  I  was  de 
lighted  beyond  measure." — We  asked  if  at  Whitefield's 
return  the  same  popularity  continued.  —  "  Not  the  same 
fury,"  he  said,  "  not  the  same  wild  enthusiasm  as  before, 


2GS  OLD    AGE. 

but  a  greater  esteem,  as  lie  became  more  known.     He 
did  not  terrify,  but  was  admired." 

We  spent  about  an  hour  in  his  room.  He  speaks 
very  distinctly  for  so  old  a  man,  enters  bravely  into  long 
sentences,  which  are  interrupted  by  want  of  breath,  but 
carries  them  invariably  to  a  conclusion,  without  correct 
ing  a  word. 

He  spoke  of  the  new  novels  of  Cooper,  and  "  Peep  at 
the  Pilgrims,"  and  "  Saratoga,"  with  praise,  and  named 
with  accuracy  the  characters  in  them.  He  likes  to  have 
a  person  always  reading  to  him,  or  company  talking  in 
his  room,  and  is  better  the  next  day  after  having  visitors 
in  his  chamber  from  morning  to  night. 

He  received  a  premature  report  of  his  son's  election, 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  without  any  excitement,  and  told 
the  reporter  he  had  been  hoaxed,  for  it  was  not  yet  time 
for  any  news  to  arrive.  The  informer,  something  damped 
in  his  heart,  insisted  on  repairing  to  the  meeting-house, 
and  proclaimed  it  aloud  to  the  congregation,  who  were 
so  overjoyed  that  they  rose  in  their  seats  and  cheered 
thrice.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Whitney  dismissed  them  im 
mediately. 

When  life  has  been  well  spent,  age  is  a  loss  of  what  it 
can  well  spare,  —  muscular  strength,  organic  instincts, 
gross  bulk,  and  works  that  belong  to  these.  But  the 
central  wisdom,  which  was  old  in  infancy,  is  young  in 
fourscore  years,  and,  dropping  off  obstructions,  leaves  in 
happy  subjects  the  mind  purified  and  wise.  I  have  heard 
that  whoever  loves  is  in  no  condition  old.  I  have  heard, 
that,  whenever  the  name  of  man  is  spoken,  the  doctrine 


OLD    AGE.  269 

of  immortality  is  announced ;  it  cleaves  to  his  constitu 
tion.  The  mode  of  it  baffles  our  wit,  and  no  whisper 
comes  to  us  from  the  other  side.  But  the  inference  from 
the  working  of  intellect,  hiving  knowledge,  hiving  skill, 
—  at  the  end  of  life  just  ready  to  be  born,  —  affirms  the 
inspirations  of  affection  and  of  the  moral  sentiment. 


THE     END. 


Cambridge:  Klectrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bi^clow,  &  Co. 


14  DAY  USE 

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